Eden Abyss
by plaidoctor
Summary: Maybelle Willis is a Templar sniper, lost in an ancient, complicated conflict between two prehistoric factions. In the midst of this unending war, she finds a beacon of hope that could erase all her fears. There are five targets in the cross hairs, and a lot of impossible questions that need to be answered. But with a cheeky assassin on her side, anything is possible.
1. Chapter 1

**Takes place between the main game and JTR. This story is already written, and _much_ darker than the actual game, you've been warned.**

 **Rated M for violence, sexual themes, drugs, alcohol, torture, swearing, and biting _snipes_. Basically, Victorian London. :)**

 **Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft, no copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

 **Thousands of years ago...**

When I came into this wandering existence, mother nature blessed me with the unfortunate malady of being fortunate. In another life that highlighted another horizon, being fortunate meant I am to prosper. But as I stare at the stump of my right arm, I realize the life I'm dreaming of is not this one.

The other half of my soul came to visit for the 574th time this year, and that was the last time we were basking in the golden calamity of the keep. He used to bring me news, food, and stories from above. Now he brings me only news. News of our collective retirement from this world. I am not saddened by the notion, for I have been here for trillions of eons. If I crave the thrust of the winds, then I will endure the silence of death. I do forgive my masters, but I don't forgive myself for submitting to them, their chambers of doom, their pointless documentation of our lives. Would anyone care to read a segment of their carved paragraphs, now that the dooming fury of Adam and Eve is upon us?

And now I numb my bleeding stump with harrowing thoughts—approaching catastrophes that will leave me wanting of another life. And yet another one. And another. I, Yara, not quite Isu and not quite human. Both in servitude and rulership. I, Yara, drowning in a sea of glowing fears inside this endless tower. And now I'm finally leaving. But if the fallacy of Eden is evergreen, then I am forced to submit yet again—now to the omniscient, all-encompassing shade of fate. But my golden chain is nestled within years of ashes, there, in the midst of the poetic dreamland they forced me to keep safe.

The sun is approaching, Eden is to be scorched. We are to be killed by our own workforce.

I was a vigilant guard to the Isu's painful secrets. And now, I am free to wander this burning isle.

* * *

 **1875**

Maybelle's left hand closed tightly around the barrel of her favoured rifle, and the other hand drifted to rest against the trigger. It was cloudy, and the fog had devoured of her vision what the smoke of the factories could not. But she has to do this- she has to check for men lurking around the possible route that ends at the lord's mansion. She has to, she must to. He was to have a gathering that night, perhaps the biggest he had till this day. A sort of a banquet with a hired band. Behind her back, there on the solid ground, workers tended to the garden and the surrounding sculptures. The interior, which the lord's maids are working within, must be just as impeccable as the exterior.

But it was futile to picture the beauty that may lie within- she won't see how it would look after the days of toiling that numbed every servant's fingers. The presence of lords and ladies tonight meant she won't be able to mingle with the guests like Lady Willis, or sample the ridiculous amounts of food currently being prepared within the mansion. Not only because Lady Willis, whom she considers a close friend, is older than her and ready to receive the attention of men, but she is also a lady, and Maybelle's not. Lord Willis is a Lord, and Rosalie is his daughter, she is not.

Hayward Willis is Maybelle's uncle.

Her eyes searched the fog-enveloped horizon, and she realized there's nothing but the usual bustle of London. Reluctant, she lowered her rifle and began walking to the opposite side of the roof. There in the midst of the roof, she couldn't see what lies beyond the edge. If she could, she would topple over like she had just learned to take her first baby steps. She lowered her chin and stared at the ground, observing her gentle locomotion. Better to see my feet than see how high this roof is, she thought.

In what seemed like hours of nervousness and precipitation, she arrived at the edge. Instantly, she lifted her gaze and let it roam beyond the iron fence that surround the pretentious mansion. Grosvenor Square wasn't quiet, but, when was it? Ladies and Lords were strolling in the large circular park in the midst. And carriages were drawn to and fro by rowdy, panting horses. No shady-looking fellows dawdled on the rooftops of the other mansions. None anticipating the right moment while disappearing between innocent men and women. She lowered her rifle, not bothering to search the rest of the available mile with the scope.

Perhaps now she can climb down for luncheon. And only the prospect of having something to fill her growling stomach forced her to face the ladder that leads to the ground. Suddenly, dizziness overwhelmed her, and she dropped into a crouch and waited for it to disappear.

She should not have looked down, she lamented herself. The next time she does so, she will be close enough to the edge for the waiting monster to pull her off the roof. Such childish notions were developed in the eras where they belong—childhood. But somehow, they stuck with her into adulthood.

Taking a breath, she stuck her feet to the protruding tops of the ladder and turned her back to the edge, willing her heart to slow down. She began her long descent along the face of the estate, where solid ground welcomed her with the smell of moist grass and the wavering scent of flowers. She promised herself- once I'm down I'll have the pleasure of boasting about staying alive to be there for breakfast, I just have to touch the ground…

When she did, she sighed until her lungs were completely empty. She looked at the metal fence that now towered over her. And for the millionth time, wondered what in the blazes kept her in her uncle's employ for this long.

The bastard, he might have treated her as one of his own through the first few years, but once she was old enough to climb the dreaded ladder that led to the rooftop, he knocked the books out of her hands and put a rifle in place. She wasn't sure if she should feel grateful for the fact that she wasn't sent off to a workhouse, or fuming because she wasn't inside the mansion like Rosalie, matching earrings with her gilded cross necklace. Or trying to decide which corset gave her the best hourglass figure. Her waist should be thin enough to match her age, twenty-three.

She pushed her inner turmoil aside and walked by a couple of gardeners that tended to a growing patch of tulips. She made her way to the guard's quarters, which was glued to the outer range of the estate, and went in the open door. Glen, a guard who oftentimes found himself partnered with her on patrols, was at the large table in the main room. His feet kicked up and a pint of ale in his hand.

"Drinking, already?" She tutted, and walked around the table. He eyed her as she took a seat beside him.

Her eyes ended up on the papers that arranged guard duty for the upcoming party. She had studied those plans for a long time while musing about the joy that bustled inside the mansion itself. The head of the guardsmen, Mister Stocker, made it clear to everyone that she wasn't paying attention to him, her cheeks still burn at the memory.

"I wasn't aware that you were involved with my drinking behaviour. We get a pint a day, and since I'm off duty, I'd like to drink it this instance." He punctuated his words with a sip, then stared off into the void again.

May shook her head, "Suit yourself, but when it is time and the event starts, Lord Willis won't be glad to see you intoxicated."

"It's just one pint, relax." He gulped down the liquid and slapped his pint down atop the plans. He reached up to scratch at his nose as he eyed the pint with a sad expression. Next pint—tomorrow. Maybelle could almost taste his sadness.

"What's for luncheon?" She asked him while her finger drifted upon the surface of the table.

"Boiled eggs, Lord Willis is sparing no expense for his guests. But I can't say the same for his employees."

She shrugged, "Not the first time," She looked at him and noted his drooping eyes, "Had sleep last night?"

His brows furrowed, "That obvious that I hadn't? I keep thinking about the position Stocker gave me, he put me right at the Lord's office."

May's eyes widened, "I haven't actually… I didn't hear…"

"Of course you hadn't, you were too busy chewing your lip and thinking of food." He laced his hands behind his head and dropped his legs from the table.

She narrowed her eyes at him, her arms crossing defensively, "I wasn't thinking of food."

"That is your answer? You were thinking of food but a moment ago."

"Well, I wasn't the one who got to spend an afternoon sipping on beer. I had to scope out the area for assassination attempts!"

"He issued the command? Sounds like a usual Lord Willis schedule to me." He said in a mocking voice, but May found nothing funny.

"The man is paranoid. I got your opinion already. This isn't a secret, Glen. The man himself admits that to us sometimes." She rolled her eyes at him, "My point is, you could spend time in the shade while I have to face the midday outside."

He hummed at her.

"And this isn't even the point! You got a crucial position this time, any idea why?" She continued.

His eyes snapped to hers as he removed his arms and fixed his posture, he seemed to look down on her now. She found it unsettling, and his continuous silence furthered her discomfort.

"No." He finally answered with a smile. His muscles instantly relaxed and he settled back into his chair.

She moved her eyes away from him. It was hard to look at him after his abrupt change of mood. Perhaps her uncle promised the young man a special prize if he could keep curious visitors out of the office for the night. Maybe Glen understood that Maybelle would be sour about it, at the very least. As far as she could remember, Lord Willis was never trustful enough to send his niece on a special errand or appoint her at the doors of his office or library. It was hard to accept the fact the he simply did not want her to meddle in his affairs beyond keeping out intruders…

She rose and walked to some shelves that held a few rifles and ammunition for them. A lone revolver sat at the edge, waiting for whoever used it on a daily basis. She felt Glen's eyes at her back.

"When was the last time we had an opium fest with Stocker and the men? I honestly can't remember," Glen drawled, "I think he's hiding it away from us because of the dinner party. What do you think?"

While May did partake in the squad's risky union monthly, she was thinking about quitting forever, "You know what I think. He will store it away for his own entertainment this evening, then complain that we ran out. If you smell anything funny coming from Stocker's quarters—you know, other than odorous gas, tell me."

"I hear he often takes the stuff to smoke it elsewhere. You wouldn't be smelling anything but odor anytime soon, I'm afraid."

Her eyes narrowed in despise, "That would explain his _nightly walks_. They used to say he frequented the brothels, not a private opium flat. But whatever's the case, I'll follow him into his den and show him business."

He smirked cheekily, "What do you plan on doing, Maybelle?"

She whipped around and glanced challengingly at him, but her mind was honestly as far away from a working plan as possible, "I'll raid his cabinet and take the whole supply for myself. Next time he goes on a pleasure mission; he'd have to settle for whores instead. And oh, I won't share any of it."

"You wouldn't dare, May."

She had to say something to dissipate the talk of drugs, "Do… do you think the leftovers will be great this time, or will they be chewed by some aristocrat who didn't like the sauce?"

"I swear to god… You're talking about food again… Do you have anything else to talk about?" His frustrated voice called to her.

"Yeah, will the flower arrangements be made with yellow roses, or white ones?" She sighed lengthy and turned to face him, "There's little else to talk about since those kinds of events are not for us."

He considered that for a moment, then nodded, "A good point."

"Maybe in another existence, I was Miss Willis and she was Maybelle. Maybe then I'll share gossip with you about who bedded what." She smirked and walked to the table, she sat at the edge.

He grinned, and it was heart-warming to at last see the Glen she knew, "I would love to hear that. Sir Duncan of Duncanshire bedded a mare a fortnight ago, that would keep me laughing for a day."

She snorted at him. And when he laughed, she did alongside him. He was slightly buzzed due to the beer, but she still laughed harder than him at the obscene rumour that came from another life.

It was good to have a true friend when everyone paid her no heed.

* * *

The sun was falling behind the houses as she looked on from her vantage point. The haze enveloped the birth of a new night. And a new night meant the gathering was imminent. She felt an odd mix of apprehension and excitement. It was illogical, since it was neither her first party to guard nor her last, but it still felt as if it was the biggest to be held in the estate for years. Finally, something to do other than answer to her uncle's paranoia. At least now she could observe as each man walked into the estate, a lady at his arm, as they both dragged themselves towards the party under the roof of the huge mansion.

It started slow. Hansoms began drifting by the estate to drop off early guests. Women's faces were painted and the men's outfits were ironed. She noted as the evening unfolded into darkness and gaslights were lit one by one, illuminating the streets and giving off a dazzling appearance to the area surrounding the mansion. Guests began pilling in and May lost track of how many entered in groups and couples and solos. She stood high and for once appreciated the fact that she could look down onto all these snobby aristocrats, after spending an eternity with the roles reversed.

Sometime into the night, behind the veil of loud and harmonious music beneath her feet, she managed to hear Glen calling for her softly. He stood on the groomed lawn, waving at her. She lifted a hand from her rifle and waved back, giving him a smile whilst knowing he probably didn't perceive it from the height.

"Wish me luck!" He called out, and ducked away from the questioning gazes of the guests who were out in the garden, viewing the arrangements under the soft gaslight.

She tried to reassure herself that she was on solid ground. Something solid indeed was at her feet, but it was not ground. She pushed the idea behind and paced towards the southern edge of the roof. The music was ingrained in her memory thus far, and she was sure it would bother her and make her hum through the recitations of tomorrow's positions. Stocker won't just have her head- he will have her entire body.

The hours seemed to drag on but the music only seemed to get louder, more varied. The smell of food wafted from an open window three storeys below her—the cook was extremely busy. Her mouth watered at the prospect of sampling some of his work. She shivered against a particularly strong wind as it blew past her. The night seemed to have no end, and she was tired. She wanted to know what happened with Glen. A far-fetched idea grasped her attention—both Stocker and her uncle would forgive her if she climbed down and patrolled the hallways for a minute or two. Three other snipers were situated in various parts of the estate. One was on the ground, scoping out the long distance that ran from the end of the gardens to the gates. The rest were standing atop the detached building that served as their quarters. If anything were to happen, they will take care of it long before she had taken note of anything happening.

A thought crossed her, the reasoning voice from her subconscious—what she was trying to do was wrong. She had enough trouble with the two men who controlled her life already, why make it harder on herself? But the calling of food and the promise to witness whatever is happening below was far too hard to ignore. She never climbed out of her post in a gathering, or even in a tiny grouping for afternoon tea. But she was determined to check on Glen and see if her uncle had already devoured him or saved him for breakfast.

It was the biggest party Lord Willis ever held—she would be cruel to herself if she didn't climb down and offer herself a chance to witness it from below.

She climbed down the ladder and stood in the midst of mingling guests who ignored her. She moved around the estate to the main entrance that faced the west, and went through the large open door. Two guards eyed her warily as she went in. She recognized them—Mack and Gerald, they were often posted as general patrol around the premise. Their leader seemed to have a different opinion about them through this night. It seemed as if every single position was switched for this night—perhaps a tactic her uncle acquired from his book of paranoia.

She stood in the hallway that led to the parlor if one was to continue forward. The drawing room was on her left. Music was numbingly loud here, and she itched to put her hands against her ears. She walked through the crowd into the parlor and observed the band that was situated atop a makeshift platform. Each man had a woman in his arms as they swayed to the booming tunes.

She averted her gaze and looked towards a table full of refreshments. A maid stood by the table, waiting to serve guests.

She made her way to her goal and wasted no time in scooping up a bite-sized appetizer from the ceramic. The maid scrutinized her with a perturbed frown but said nothing. She popped the piece in her mouth and savored how sour blended with sweet. It was possibly laced with every spice the cook thought up.

Wiping her mouth with the edge of her red sleeve, she kept herself wedged in place and stared at the rest of the appetizers and desserts that called to her. But she had another mission in mind—find Glen. Perhaps he'd appreciate a sample? She grabbed a circular delicacy that fit nicely in her hand and moved to the top floor.

After passing several apprehensive guests that might have suspected her for a gossip sharing damsel, she arrived at the hallway that ended with the infamous office. Glen was standing in front of the door, his face lit by two gaslights on either side of him. He looked a lot more bored than those guards who were made to patrol the entrance. She walked to him with a faint smile on her lips.

"Glen," She called, grinning heartily when his eyes widened and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He blinked away the shock and studied her approaching physique, as if he was attempting to learn the identity of the intruder.

"May?" He gasped.

"No, it's Stocker, boy. Stand straighter or I'll shove a stick up your arse to save you the trouble." Her smile was genuine against her challenging eyes.

He sighed and closed his eyes, as if shaking away her attack. For a moment May suspected he bought it. Patrolling an empty hallway would do that to a man.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, removing his hand from the Remington 1858 that sat at his hip, "What are you doing here, May? If Lord Willis sees you…"

"I'll be back in about a minute. I just came to check up on you." She shrugged, and busied her hands with a flower arrangement that was propped up by a metal display.

"Afraid I might've passed out of boredom?" His voice was very clearly tired.

"Or worse, complaining aristocrats who might mistake you as one of the servants." She turned to him.

"May, go back to your post." He offered with an appreciative smile.

"Alright, Stocker."

She wanted to move before she heard voices appear behind the door to the office. She listened to the steady hum of two men talking, then another joined him. Her eyes fixed on Glen, "What's happening in there? Willis finally found a man that could control his daughter without ending up in bedlam?"

Glen studied her and his forehead wrinkled several times. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and put his gaze to the ground. May tilted her head at him, attempting to coax him into talking.

"Is Lord Willis inside? I haven't seen him below."

He stiffened at the name, "May, go back. Please. This isn't your business," He told her as he let his hand drift to his weapon. Maybelle knew that Glen would never shoot her, especially because she was somewhat related to his boss, but also because he was her friend.

Maybelle assumed he was doing his job. She respected him for it, but something still dared her to question the inhabitants of the room before her. She held her breath and listened.

"But the sights that I've seen when I recovered these documents," said a thick voice that was muffled by the layered wall, "You wouldn't believe what I've seen."

A feminine voice answered him, "I suppose we're all eager to find out, Mr. Roan."

She wanted to keep listening, but Glen's voice overpowered the hushed voices behind the wooden doors, "Maybelle, go away. This isn't what you're supposed to be doing tonight!" He hissed.

She was taken aback by his hostility, since he never let it show when she was around. They never fought. It was a perfect friendship that had no complications, simply because it was built on one thing—their duty as guards.

"What is he planning this time? A contraption that will let him gain the favor of the whole borough, or one that will print money?" She thought aloud.

Glen stepped forward and seized her by the arm. He snarled and leaned his head towards her, "Maybelle, if you don't depart right now I'll be sure to send you flying back to your post with the back of my hand. There's a lot at stake here. Stocker will kill me if he found out I let one of his guards eavesdrop on his employer, so leave."

She scowled, and her lips spread into a thin line. He never treated her like this, which made her wonder if what Lord Willis promised him was a great deal more than some extra shillings.

She shook herself free of his grasp, and stepped back from him so quick that she almost stumbled and fell onto the arrangement. She didn't mind her friend getting richer, but she certainly did mind the way he treated her because of an unspoken promise between the young man and his superior. She fixed the cuff of her coat and turned away from his burning gaze. Once she was out of his sight and safe in the lavishly decorated corridor of the storey, she leaned against the wall and took a breath to steady her nerves.

She tried to recollect what she heard. They were conversing about a map, and what seemed like a fantastic display which one of them had seen. What is this map, where did it lead? Knowing her uncle, it was something astoundingly useful to him if he held secret meetings to discuss it. The last secret meeting he held was arranged between him and Stocker- they discussed the bolstering of the Lord's guard power, which she later learned was brutally important. In three days' time, the estate was assaulted by whatever enemies the man had made through his time as a Viscount. She still remembers watching as the morticians gathered the corpses that littered the bloodied garden, to either bury or send for science. She realized it was an arranged criminal offence.

And if Lord Willis was holding a secret meeting in the midst of a bash, something urgent was approaching. More imperative than a meeting between a potential suitor and the father of a beautiful woman in her early twenties. She shuddered as her eyes drifted to the freshly-polished wood beneath her feet. Her mind began to wander and she fished several deductions from her experience with Lord Willis. What he was holding may be a simple meeting of long-lost relatives, or it might mean something as crucial as London's safety. Nonetheless, she imagined that blood will drain from bodies sooner than she anticipated. Whether that blood surged from her uncle's enemies, or from herself.

She lifted herself from the wall and hurried towards her post, pushing past dancing guests in the parlour that blurred in her vision into blobs of blinding colours. A few called her a raging buffoon, a man questioned her identity. She ignored the serving girls and dashed towards the door.

Once she was out, she spared herself a moment to inhale a portion of the midnight air. The atmosphere inside was stifling as fireplaces and even the glow of the gaslights made the manor unbearably warm. She felt the guard to her right look her up and down, but she ignored him and walked down the steps that led to the grass. She put a hand to her chest and fiddled with the lone pearl, threaded with a leather rope and tied around her neck. An ornament her mother gave her years ago.

She bumped into a tall man with a thick beard and mumbled an apology. She disappeared before she heard him scold her and threaten to remove her from service. Maybelle climbed the rickety ladder that often invaded her nightmares. In those dreams, the ladder grew legs and walked away from the manor while she still latched on. But tonight, she will have nightmares of another kind—she will dream of the unspoken events which may or may not transpire in the days to come.

She stood at the precipice for the hundredth time this month alone. Her unease with the height that looked insurmountable to her was overshadowed by her thoughts. She had to know what was to happen. She made it a mission to discover what her uncle wanted of London this time. She looked down at a woman who stood on her toes to take in the scent of daffodils with a grin, while a man stood by her side and chuckled at her cheer. Her mind began to picture a gang coming in tonight, slaughtering everyone in sight with only her left to pick up the severed limbs. The infinite possibilities were agonizing.

The evening dragged on until the sky turned brighter behind the mist. Her eyes almost drooped and her weakening body threatened to give her a sticky death on her uncle's fabulous garden. She shook her head awake and instantly realized the night was over. If somebody called her down as her shift ended, she didn't hear them. So she offered herself the courtesy of heading to bed. Until sunrise, Stocker told her as his rough hands held up a piece of paper. But guests left the estate long before a new day dawned.

Climbing down with the usual foreboding sensation at the back of her neck, she touched the ground and tried to find her way to the quarters in her current state. The place was almost deserted, with only a few early rising servants or those that didn't sleep bumping into her, sweeping the pavement outside the gates or tending to a few flowers accidentally trampled by formal shoes. She stopped in her path and her gaze immediately drifted to the open doors of the manor.

Now's your chance, she told herself. It's either this, or an unknown danger that lurked around like a hungry beast, waiting for the kill. She has to warn Glen because her uncle never would, she has to warn herself.

Before her fear could pull her away, she entered the manor and pretended to patrol the empty hallways that were partially sullied by mud and bits of food. She walked past the parlour and up the stairs, in a few moments she found herself staring at the unprotected door of the forbidden office. Glen was nowhere to be seen, neither was Stocker. And Lord Willis was definitely asleep.

She looked over her shoulder twice and her feet carried her to the tall door. The wooden frame was covered with patterned glass that made it impossible to see anything beyond but indistinguishable shadows of furniture. She dared to push down the doorknob, but it was closed. She couldn't say if she expected otherwise.

She felt eyes on her back, but as she turned she found nothing but the protruding leaves of the arrangement almost bending to touch her neck. She pulled out a lock pick and kneeled in front of the door.

She stared at the steel in her hand. Her sister once told her the only way to open the closed door of their room was to fiddle endlessly with the lock until it budged beneath a hairpin. But after May got over the inevitability that is her father's abusive nature, she taught herself the art and discovered it required a great deal more. She learned to listen to the sweet click as each pin slid into place. And she learned to stop when she heard her father approaching in the hallway with a cane scraping the wood behind him. She missed her sister, and as much as she hated herself for it, she missed the idea of having a father.

As quickly as she could, she picked the lock and thanked the day she finally made it to the locksmith on one of her errands without Stocker finding out. The door opened with a dangerous creak and she slid into the small opening, finding it sufficient. Feeling like a fugitive, she spent a minute closing the door as quietly as she could, and whipped around to take in the disheveled appearance of the office. No servants were ever allowed inside but a select few. She might have seen the place once or twice when she was studying with Rosalie. But as she set foot inside, she found that it changed a great deal.

Instead of a desk, a large mahogany table not unlike the one they had in the guard's quarters was in the midst of the office. The shelves that once held books that couldn't fit in the library were now filled with weapons and metal trinkets that a weaponsmith would be happy to melt and turn into complex arms and innovative ammunition. Here and there, folded white clothes, that had the same fabric as a flag would, were hastily stuffed into drawers and cabinets as if they were a secret. The faint smell of beer came out of a mug still filled to the brim, and a circle of beer drew around it and continued into what looked like a spill. Perhaps a result of pouring at a height to generate more froth, or simply because a man knocked it unknowingly in his state of surprise. The green curtains were drawn along the window that overlooked the quietest part of the garden. But what captivated her most was the papers, letters, and newspapers that were thrown onto the table until the brown material couldn't be seen. She moved around the table until the writing on the largest paper became right-side-up.

The Artifacts of Pre-Dawn, it read. A report, it seemed—it was scribbled by neat handwriting that often pointed with an arrow towards an illustration or two. The drawings were of what appeared to be a gauntlet made of gold. Guardian's Veil, it said below. She traced the open palm with a fingertip, wondering what in the world was she looking at. Was her uncle looking for a treasured item? Was he going to sell it or keep it as a novelty?

Her eyes roamed until she found the first paragraph in the crammed paper. She had to squint to read the miniature writing.

 _It seems likely that we have located the means to open the vault that we have been looking for. Our archives called this crucial Piece of Eden 'Guardian's Veil'. But to get to it, the order needs a map especially designed by the First Civilization to provide access to the vault. Our historians remark that once the map was acquired, a team must be assembled to complete the tasks needed to open the vault. Once we have located the map, we will send it to the grandmaster while keeping the knowledge of the artifact reasonably secretive. No more than twenty men must know of its existence, and no more than five shall peruse it once the map is acquired. Further information about the artifact itself follows below._

She narrowed her eyes as the text led her to explanation of the gauntlet along with more illustrations, which were slightly less detailed when compared to the largest one drawn directly onto the paper and colored with dye.

An underlined bit caught her attention, she read on.

 _The Guardian's Veil is a powerful item which effects are not dissimilar to the Piece of Eden recovered from the Americas. Known as the Shard of Eden, and also known as the Ring of Eden. It is also not at all different to the artifact that was once sought by the order but was lost to the Assassins, called The Shroud of Eden. With the gauntlet alone, our extensive studies reveal that the wearer would be granted with immunity from physical damage. Along with the Shroud and the Shard which would be recovered from the Americas once its location is known, the wearer of all three artifacts would be able to resist all possible damage._

She stopped reading as realization hit her. She found herself recalling the anger in Lord Willis' voice as he argued with Stocker about guard patrol, or his unease when he found himself alone in his library when no guard was on duty to patrol his hallways. His fear has surmounted several stages until it probably reached clinical paranoia, and there's no one who questioned his methods or offered him a listening ear and a reassuring word. There were guards upon guards in his estate and in so much concentration that Maybelle found it unnatural. She heard him toss and turn in his sleep and rise to pace around the hallways when she still was the girl that considered Rosalie her sister. And what of those secret meetings he held to ensure the safety of himself and himself alone? What of the nights of assaults which he informed his guards of after making sure he was properly cushioned in his room, surrounded by four guards inside and out?

Lord Willis was looking for a way to rid himself of his fear, a common fear, one made to protect a human if in reasonable amounts, but too crippling in his. His fear was death, and he was looking for a way to bypass it.

Not much else of what she read made sense. Assassins? Was someone looking for him? Was someone planning to kill him? And order, what order? She supposed it might be whomever he employed to get him the artifact. He possibly spent hundreds of pounds to secure it, and the air of secrecy that enveloped the whole ordeal only proved it further. He wants the artifact, and he would do anything to get it.

She looked over her shoulder at the crack of light the curtains left uncovered. A sight she always feared welcomed her, and she felt dread climb up her neck as if it was tangible. The ground below seemed far, so far. But it was only a drop of two storeys and a roll at the end. But what if her neck cracked as she rolled? What if she wasn't conscious enough to roll and in a few days, she would be lowered and embraced by the same cold ground she feared?

Something clicked in her mind. She looked away from the window and down at the hands that often were on a rifle than plans for a better future. She placed her hand upon the largest illustration, and pictured the woven gold covering her skin. The white gemstones that interrupted the gold every now and then almost melted against her paleness. And the more she stared, the clearer the image formed in her mind. It was her, standing on the St Paul's Cathedral. As she viewed the vast, hazy expanse of London, her foot slipped on a wet tile from the rain an hour before. And she went tumbling down, the wind blew her hair away and made her eyes water, but before she clashed with her biggest enemy, her hand gleamed with a golden light that soon surrounded her. She met the ground on all fours, but she felt no pain, she only felt shards of broken stone dig into her knees. She had split the road in two, but she was safe.

The vision faded and she felt the stale air of the cluttered office surround her again.

Wide eyed and filled with awe, she drew back from the table and stood as rigidly as she could on her shaking legs. She saw a way out, a door that was finally open. One she finally didn't need to pick to reveal what's behind. She found her safety by a promise made of gold. A promise she will not let her uncle get to first. He wasn't the one who climbed a wall everyday while praying to her god and all gods that people worshiped. While people prayed every night by their beds and on Sundays, she prayed also while hanging by a thread every day. She promised to be good. To be clean. But please, don't drop her. Don't drop her.

She realized time was quickly evolving, and the sun was already attempting to beam through the fog to tickle her neck. She moved around the table and didn't think enough on her next action. She opened the door eagerly and tried to exit the office. But she bumped into a crimson-clothed back instead. The person whipped around, revolver in hand, wearing a face that only belonged to Glen.

At first, he still aimed his revolver at her, and almost pulled the trigger and ended the misery that was her life. But once he recognized her pale skin and tied-back dark hair, her thin chin and thinner lips, her hooded eyes and her willowy figure, he knew it was a mistake to shoot.

"What in the blazes are you doing here?!" He screeched, and she feared the worst since her uncle's quarters was not far from earshot. He put his revolver away and moved towards her even when the distance between them ceased to exist. He looked down at her with those piercing teal eyes of his, and for once she found herself regretting ever entering the office.

"I-I was just… I was trying to…" How in god's name did he manage to wake, wear his clothing, and march all the way here to catch her? Unless, a passing thought told her, he never finished his shift.

"You were in there," He stated the obvious to aid his thinking process, "What were you doing in there? Are you trying to rid me of my job?!" He exclaimed again. She shushed him and moved slightly away.

"Do you want to wake the man? Damn it all…"

A baffled expression appeared on his face, "The Lord waking up or not is irrelevant, once he sees the door open, he'll send me off!" He pointed to his chest for emphasis.

"Alright, alright." She tried to calm him down by placing her hands on his shoulders, but he shrugged them away, "I can- I can lock it back up. It's easy." She nudged him away, closed the door, and immediately knelt before it.

She fished out her lock pick and quickly rolled the pins back down, she twisted the knob and the door remained closed.

"There," She said as she stood, "As it never happened." She turned to him to find him staring at her, the same warning glare in his eyes.

"What if he notices anything out of place in there? What if… what if he saw you enter but kept silent until he was bothered to send me away, what if-" His panicked voice made her feel guiltier and guiltier by the second. Her aim wasn't to place anyone but herself in trouble, but she blundered and did that anyway. To make matters worse, it was her only friend.

"Glen, relax. He isn't going to find out. I didn't change the position of anything, I didn't touch… Well, I touched, but I didn't move. I swear!" She whispered as loudly as she could.

"And what if he asks me?"

She stopped, glowering at him just as intensely as he was. She parted her lips to speak, but clenched her jaw at the idea of Glen betraying her. But she betrayed him in her own way, didn't she? He told her to stay out, and she didn't listen. But she didn't think he'd still be patrolling the damn hallway. He was nowhere to be seen when she snuck in. The whole manor seemed to be in some sort of post-event stasis as everyone recovered from the event.

"Are you going to tell him, Glen?" Her voice wavered when she said his name. She kept her composure firm as she looked up at him.

The edges of his eyes and lips softened, but she was sure he still welcomed the idea of breathing fire onto her until she turned to dust.

"No," He said. But Maybelle found his voice laced with something other than truth. The way he said it—with a weak voice and lips turned downward, made her take his word with a little more than a grain of salt.

"You are going to tell him, and we'll both lose a roof over our heads." She hoped that he understood the consequences now. It was unfair to drag him into the abyss with her, but there's nothing to be done about it now.

He shook his head in disgust, "May, don't do this to me. I said I won't tell him, I'm not stupid."

She sighed through her nose and tore her gaze away from him. She had to believe Glen, for now...


	2. Chapter 2

Breakfast came late and with a special flavor, and it was not because of the expensive leftovers. It was because of the way Glen eyed her as he gobbled down pieces of veal. They ate at the same table which they conducted their plans on, and each day a different man had to wipe down the table for the day with a piece of cloth—since the servants were too busy cleaning the main building, and planning began right after breakfast.

The twenty-seven guards gathered at the circular table, each tending to his plate while sharing words with the man next to him. The other woman in the collection, Ida, smiled at her while sipping on tea. Maybelle smiled back, but it might've looked more like a grimace. Her attention ricocheted inside her head from idea to idea. From the gauntlet to the overall feel of the event yesterday, from the mutual ordeal she shared with Glen to even the fact that May didn't see what Rosalie was wearing that night.

"Good work last night, men. Lord Willis told me that everything went according to plan." Stocker said after swallowing a mouthful of bread.

If Willis' reassurance alluded to the safety of his head, then yes, nothing went wrong. But if he only knew that a certain someone broke into his office, he'd revoke his faith in his own guards, and then his own family. If he treated her as such.

"I hope you've slept well, because today won't be a light patrol. Lord Willis wants his estate to be patrolled as per the usual plans."

Stocker earned a round of grumbles, but he stopped them from continuing and furthering into disapproval.

"I know you're tired, men. But it's your duty. You're the Viscount's personal guards, he pays you fourteen pounds a year. Anyone would rather be in your position. You have been trained by me since you were boys ambling in the streets, and now…"

His voice drifted out of her attention as easily as she would extinguish a candle. She didn't have a wink of sleep after leaving Glen with a freshly closed door. She looked down at the ceramic their breakfast was served in, and wondered if it was lifted as it is from the dining hall of the manor and simply plopped down in front of them. Someone possibly planted his teeth in the piece of veal she munched on. She didn't know whether to appreciate the spiced leftovers of a dinner party or miss the bland food they often had.

Her mind conjured a thought—if Glen told Stocker what she was up to last night, he would be addressing her at the moment. But he appeared to have no idea. And even praised her for _staying_ in her post for the whole night. No one wanted to deny the information after she pointedly glared at the whole squad, one by one.

Servants lifted the dishes away from the tables, someone wiped down the surface, and Stocker arranged patrols for the day. She stopped counting how many times she ended up on the roof a long time ago, and today was another rday to add to the growing number. She appreciated Stocker's belief in her ability to spot a man coming a mile away, and sometimes he made her believe that she could sense him coming before he even planned an attack. But her skills never involved telepathy.

Atop the roof, she struggled between falling faint and forgetting she was at the edge, and wondering if Glen would ever be coaxed into telling their little secret. She cursed herself as she walked along the edge with mindless steps. If the thought of intrusion never occurred to her, everyone would be safe and she will continue fearing the ground as the lower class feared the workhouse. The thought made her snort. Perhaps her problem wasn't that humongous when compared with the torture other people faced in London. Mothers clutching onto babes as they died from cholera or mere starvation, children as they struggled alongside their family by working for long hours and never learning a word. But the horror of falling always weighed down on her, like a demon that rode her shoulders, describing her death in a foreboding voice and reveling as she look like a leaf in the wind.

No. Whatever it takes, she will take the artifact for herself. The decicious still sounded foregin to her, as if she wasn't the one who came up with it. But her uncle had many guards to his name, one that always stood outside his chambers, and one that protected his secrets, and the rest that protected his estate. He had enough protection to last into the next century.

She on the other hand, felt insignificant and naked to whatever danger was waiting. What made it worse was the fact she was pushed to do it all, to face her fears for every bite of warm food.

It made her sick.

* * *

It was a night so tiring that she decided to rest at the edge of the roof, her feet dangling in the air as the bottom of her uniform and her hands became wet from a recent rainfall. She touched the clammy bricks as she let her eyes roam over Grosvenor Square. By day it was cloudy enough that the gaslights were lit by afternoon. And by night she gave up her attempts to scour the area for thugs. She could've sworn she slept a minute or two sitting on the edge, and she promptly woke with a start. At first, she realized it must have been her inner perception of danger, but it was something else.

Her vision caught a figure clothed in black and a hint of red that adorned his waist. Her mind told her she was dreaming—two minutes before no soul was in the garden except the marching bodies of her fellow guards. But when she braved against her exhaustion and looked for the men, she found no trace of them. Not even an abandoned rifle, not even a hint of blood sprayed across the dark grass.

She finally woke from her daze and jumped to her feet, almost slipping as her boots scuffed the roof. She planted her feet and found the figure from earlier. Her hands instantly lifted her rifle and aimed it at the man in black.

"In my sights! Don't move or I'll shoot! State your business in Lord Willis' estate!" She shouted to the man below, and he froze in his place. He never dared look up.

From this height and the gaslight, she gathered that the man had hair as dark as his leather outfit. He was gloved and cloaked. Everything about him screamed that he meant no good. She kept her aim steady and didn't waste the wide outlook she had by looking into the scope.

"State your business! I'll shoot!" She threatened again, louder this time. Hoping that the patrol will hear her voice and come to aid.

The man finally looked up at her, still in place. Her fingers tightened around the barrel. She has threatened countless individuals as they snuck into the estate for a piece of Lord Willis' fortune, but she never had to gun them down. This time might be an exception since no one appeared to catch him and wind him up in ropes.

Her grasp faltered as she held the rifle, but she forced her hands to clamp down until she felt her heartbeat in her palms. She would not mind killing him, but she would also like sparing him. Killing someone was not at top of her favorite things to do. Despite her uniform which she often found empowering, red was her least favorite color.

Before she could react, the man suddenly aimed at her as if wanted to shoot her. But his fingers held no gun. She pulled the trigger out of sheer instinct, but the man was gone after her eyes finished blinking. Before she could wonder how in the world he vanished, she heard a thin sound of what seemed like metal scraping against fabric. And like a ghost out of a storybook, he appeared to her right. At the top of the ledge she often anxiously walked upon. A shiver of fright drew up her spine and she quickly adjusted her aim towards his new location. She pulled the trigger again, but his arm knocked the barrel away. And as she recovered from the recoil, he tore the rifle out of her rigid grasp and kicked her in the gut.

She almost collapsed, the breath draining out of her lungs as she coughed. The man threw her rifle over the edge. And before she could wrap and arm around her stomach or save her rifle from a broken fate, he grasped her open collar with one hand and turned her towards the edge. She gasped and realized she was trapped between two deaths. His green eyes glared at her with a determined gleam. She'd seen this look before, within the gazes of seasoned killers that paid no heed to the importance of a soul. She cried as one of her heels slid across and became dangled in the air, the other struggled to find something solid and she felt her entire weight lifted by the sheer strength of his arm. Her hands flew to hold onto his wrist, indecisive as to whether pry it off or hold onto it for dear life. She spared a glance to the empty garden below and looked back into the eyes of the man.

"Please!" She cried, feeling a sob come out of her lips uninhibited, "Please, please! Don't, don't drop me. Please! Please!" She begged in a frantic voice as he tongue tried to form coherent words. Her face drained of blood and she felt raw coldness replace it. Her eyes never widened as much as they did that moment.

Her captor seemed unfazed by her breakdown. Her heightened senses drank the details of his face as if it was the only thing that existed, as if knowing his face meant she could find him and haunt him after he threw her over the edge. Those green, small eyes under thick eyebrows- one was marred by a blade's scar. The scowl they formed made him look like an eagle. Faint wrinkles adorned the corners of his eyes, which served to make him look more intimidating rather than older. His stubble was thick at the edges of his face, but thinned as it moved to his thick lips. In another reality, she would've called him handsome. No woman would deny it, but in this world, she saw the face of death that has finally come to claim her.

"Please," She felt her lips moving, but heard no sound. Her eyes almost closed, and his face was ingrained in her memory.

This was death that has come to claim her for what she's done. She was convinced, for appropriately, he was dressed in black. He was a phantom that vanished and appeared next to kill her. For all the men she threatened or bled in her uncle's name, for the intrusion of the sanctity of his office. For not searching for her missing sister and riding off with her to start anew. For not protecting her mother, for remembering her without feeling bitterness invade her soul like a poison.

Her eyes closed completely, and she was ready to embrace darkness.

But he pulled her back from the edge and threw her towards the center of the roof. As she fell, she was confused to see stone instead of grass. But when her cheek hit the roof and scraped against its grains, she realized he spared her.

When she had the willpower to rise from her astonishment and observe the black-clad man, he was gone. At this point, she was thoroughly convinced she was dreaming as she drifted on the edge of the roof in the world above. This man couldn't exist in the world she usually inhabited. And if he was real, and she wasn't drifting through a dream, then she was sure she will be finding his face on every man until time ceases to be.

She stood from the ground and sprinted towards the edge to find him, but nothing was in the garden save for the silence and the warm glow of light. She found herself looking towards the guard's quarters. Where's everyone? Did he kill them? Was she the only one who saw him? And again, was she dreaming?

No, she wasn't dreaming. Few minutes of stunned observation passed until the man climbed out of a lit window on the west side of the building, right below where he held her over the edge. She couldn't do anything but watch as he climbed down the building with agility and hurried towards the fence. He jumped upwards and latched himself onto the top of the black metal, and flipped himself over the pointed ends of the railings. And as simply as one would drop down stairs that led to a front door, he dropped down the fence onto the ground. Then he ran off into the night.

She stood there, unable to fathom if her mind was playing tricks on her or if it was a reality. She stopped herself from lingering without answers and climbed down the ladder. She searched the garden for the missing guards that should patrol that side of the garden until it was time for someone to take their places as the shifts changed. She looked behind columns and under the gazebo. Her feet took her to the backyard of the estate which a short hedge grew across. Behind it the space was planted with every flower Willis' gardeners could think of. She roamed through the bushes of roses and stepped unknowingly on petunias and asters. But they were nowhere to be found. She was alone with the nightly hum of London and the mixing scents of flowers.

* * *

She shook her head, and jumped over the hedges to run for the guard's quarters. She burst in the door and ran across the dark, connecting hallway that led to the chambers. Stocker was dead asleep now, he alternated his shifts between night and day. Today he definitely took the day shift. She skipped the six rooms across of each other and stopped at the last one in the end of the corridor. The door existed there as if it watched the other doors by day and night, which was exactly what the inhabitant of that chamber did to the rest of the squad. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the wood, but she swallowed back her worry and rasped her knuckles on the door.

"Mr. Stocker, sir. It's an emergency." She kept a steady tone to her voice, but said her words loud and clear. She shifted on her feet until he finally opened, half-dressed with red eyes that ignored a slowly disappearing dream to eye the visitor.

"What is it, Miss Willis?" He scratched the hairs on his naked chest and scowled at her.

"I… It's- the guards, and the man… he-"

"Slow down and tell me what's going on, Miss Willis." He urged her with a steady voice as he drew his door completely open.

"I can't find the eastern patrol. They were there but a minute ago! I was on the edge and I closed my eyes for a minute, when I opened them. I saw a man-"

"What man, what did he do?" He visibly stiffened and was already grabbing for a coat from his hanger.

"He almost killed me, he knocked the rifle out of my hand and I think he got into the manor. I didn't know what to do! No one was around to hear me yell so they could gun him down, nobody heard me. I watched him leave, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She bit at her index finger and began pacing in front of the door frame. Stocker's torso was already dressed and he was planting his feet into mudded boots.

"Show me where it happened, now." He finished fiddling with his footwear and exited the warmth of his chamber.

He walked in front of her until they left the quarters. Once they were out, she immediately walked to the first point of interest to the west. The fence.

"He climbed out here," She pointed to the top of the fence, then aimed her finger to the roof across, "I was up there, my usual post. He threatened to throw me off the edge and… and my rifle, where's my rifle?" She surveyed the ground and found that it landed on a thickening patch of grass in front of bushes that lined a portion of the fence. She dashed for it and picked it up.

Walking towards the backyard, she stopped at line where the building ended and the pretentious flower garden began, she looked left and right, "I think this is the last place I've seen the two guards patrolling, then I… they disappeared. I looked for them, but… but I didn't find them, not even bodies."

Stocker stood behind me and his eyes searched the large garden, eyes drifting from tree to tree. He searched the line of bushes by vision and never found a bloody limb protruding from the leaves. His gaze then went to a wooden shed at the far edge of the estate that kept the tools of the live-in gardeners. They looked at each other with a bizarre mix of dread and curiosity. Moving in unison, they made their way across the plants and stopped at the shed.

"Do you think…" She began.

"One way to find out." He opened the door to the shed that was seldom locked because of its constant usage. Four crimson-clad bodies fell out of the crammed shed and piled on top of each other.

"Damnations." Stocker said under his breath. May clamped a hand on her mouth to hide her gasp.

She was a frozen viewer as the blood that gathered in the shed began to ooze down the edge and soak the earth, just as it soaked the once beige wood. Now it was a sickening dark red that was still glistening in the gaslight. By instinct, she looked over her shoulder as she felt an itch creep up her neck. How could she let this happen? Why didn't she open her eyes?

"I'm sorry. I swear I didn't see this, I was so tired, and… and-"

"It's my fault for not offering you enough sleep, Miss Willis. Don't blame yourself." He tore his eyes away from the corpses and looked at her instead, "What did this man look like, where did he go?"

"He climbed over the fence and fled. I could've sworn I saw him heading towards the park, but then I lost him." She paused and swallowed the lump in her throat, she couldn't tear away from the bodies of her fallen squad members, "As for what he looked like, he was… perhaps in his thirties, wrinkles fresh on his face. And he had green eyes, very distinguishable," She closed her eyes and the memory of his face returned, "Black hair, or dark, and he was pale. Definitely English. He… he wore black, all black except for some red here and there. He scared the soul out of me… he…" Her words gradually drifted into nothing. She felt her eyes burning.

"Alright, we will send a detachment to look for him, we will report to the police. It's all alright." Stocker reassured her.

But no, nothing was alright. Her mates were dead. She kneeled and attempted to put names to faces. The first man she pushed away from the pile was Mr. Tim Auburt. Middle-aged man, she couldn't say she knew him very well, but she knew his story. His hair grayed as he served Lord Willis for almost two decades, he had a wife somewhere in Horsham, and two children that almost never saw him. His lone daughter was coming of age in three years.

Next was Mr. Harrison Egerton, a man who fathered a bastard and left the mother to rot in a workhouse. The last man was Mr. Hegan, a man Stocker fished from fighting ring and trained him in the art of weaponry. And the last person was the other woman in their squad, the widow Lorene Kerran. Her husband ended up behind bars for a felony and was executed, and after a childless marriage she decided to find her own way in the world.

When she finished identifying the corpses, May found that she was crying.

Stocker simply stood there, and she stared at his dirtied boots through the blur of tears, "We must warn Lord Willis, he could be in grave danger." He said with a voice softer than usual, as if he was calming a frightened hare.

She merely nodded. She found herself not caring whether her uncle was in a hazardous situation. To her, the four dead squad members in front of her were far more important than a man still living and breathing. She knew it was wrong to think so, but she couldn't move away from them.

"Are you coming?" He asked.

She bent her neck and looked at him. His eyes held sorrow, but the scowl meant he wanted revenge as soon as possible. He already moved on, but she didn't. Not yet. The corpses weren't even cold yet. But she had to go, the sooner they told Lord Willis, the sooner he gives the command to send a detachment to look for the bastard. The idea made her rise and wait for Stocker to lead.

"Tell me everything, tell me what happened!" Her uncle's voice wavered. He was frightened, but for his head alone, she guessed.

"I already did tell you everything." She said under her breath.

"You must have left out details! A man that vanishes and reappears atop a building? Now, I've seen some bizarre inventions in my time, Maybelle, but this is outrageous!"

She recollected the memory and it came out as it is. Three seconds, the first he vanishes, the second he reappears, the third he holds her by the neck.

She shook her head and sank deeper into her chair. Her uncle seated both of the people with bloodied hands in the parlour. She guessed he wouldn't ever open his office for her eyes. And he would never forgive her if he finds that her eyes already drank full of what his office contained.

"This man… do you know him? Have you seen him somewhere? Did he lurk around the estate before?" Her uncle continued prodding her with aimless questions to silence his fear, she shrugged.

"No, sir. I keep track of everyone who takes a look at the estate and report his description to Mr. Stocker. I'm very sure I haven't seen his face before." And she was certain that a face like his wouldn't just slip out of her note.

Her uncle huffed and his brown gaze fixed on nowhere in particular. He scratched at his grey goatee and he began shifting one of his legs in worry, "Mr. Stocker, you will of course hire an undertaker to give the brave men the final rest they deserve. And then you will hire someone in place, preferably already able and trained in your line of work, and you will begin searching for the man."

"Understood, sir." Stocker nodded as he leaned forward in his seat.

"And you will help him, Maybelle. Now, I believe you told me he infiltrated the building itself?"

"Yes, sir."

"In what manner did he enter?"

"He climbed down from the roof and went in the southernmost window, it was open."

He snarled, "Servant's quarters. One of those useless imbeciles leaves the window open for a portion of the night to let the wind refresh the stale air. I will have her head."

"There's no need for that, Sir. I'll warn them." Stocked intervened.

He wanted to argue with the guardsman, but his expression suddenly changed to dread. He turned his gaze back to Maybelle. "Did you see him exit with something in his possession?"

She rubbed the side of her face and tried to remember, "No, sir. But it depends on the size of the object you have in mind."

Lord Willis sucked in a breath, "It might fit in his inner pocket if he had a large one," He said, mostly to himself. He suddenly rose and walked out of the parlor. Naturally, the guards followed.

He climbed the set of stairs and walked until he stopped by the door to his office. His guards followed behind. Maybelle found him eyeing the door, she at once felt worried if he'd somehow found out what she had done the night before. Then she suddenly understood what he was afraid of losing. The map, most certainly.

Lord Willis pulled a chain of keys from his pocket. His fingers struggled to find the correct key and for a while all May heard were keys clanging against each other. Once he found the yellowish key he wasted no time in attempting to unlock the door. But it was already unlocked.

At once he barged in, not giving a care to Maybelle's presence outside his sacred room. At once Stocker joined him, and Maybelle felt compelled to follow the men inside.

Her foot didn't yet touch the line were the wood shifted from pale to dark before she heard her uncle's fist slam down on the large table.

"It's gone! The map, the plans, they're gone! Mr. Stocker, find that man! Now!" He slammed his fist again.

Stocker came to him at once, "Yes, sir. We will look for him as soon as it's sunrise, sir."

"No!" He exclaimed right into Stocker's face, "Now! Send them now!" Then he turned his head to Maybelle as if he forgot her attendance. His teeth clenched as he looked at her with a weak gaze.

"Maybelle, I will explain this to you later. But I am missing a golden tablet and some papers, even some letters are missing. I need you to recollect as much about the incident as you could." He then turned to Stocker with a burning glare, "Where is that young man that I've put as a permanent sentry to the office? Call him." The Viscount pointed to the door, and Stocker obeyed.

So, Lord Willis promoted Glen to guard his most precious room, Maybelle thought. She felt glad for her friend, but also felt awful because her uncle would grill Glen every day. Someone breathed on the doorknob? Call them in. A maid brushed the wood outside the office? Kick her out. Or heavens forbid, his manservant decided to wipe down the office from the ceiling up? Put him in the attic forever.

And secondly, she was absolutely sure her uncle was going to have Glen's head on a spike.

Stocker appeared ten minutes later with a Glen that was basically sleepwalking. His hair was very obviously dishevelled, his face was dripping with water, and one boot was missing. Maybelle stifled a giggle.

"This is Glen, the guard to your office." Stocker introduced aimlessly. "I found him knocked-out in your library, have you been drinking, lad?"

Glen shook his head, eyes wide as saucers.

"I know who he is. Come along boy." Lord Willis said with an odd coolness.

Glen stepped into the office, clearing his throat as the accumulating dust invaded his system. He stood as firmly as he could, with his head held straight and his eyes widening to struggle against the onset of slumber.

Lord Willis recited the events of the night, and waited for Glen to absorb the information. The young man looked over his shoulder at Maybelle, who leaned against the wall beside a cabinet full of unused china. He regarded her innocent smile with a frown.

"What do you think, boy? I placed you in the most crucial position in the entire estate, and you couldn't open your eyes far enough to see a grown man coming your way? Were you oiled?"

Glen swallowed, fear evident in his eyes, "Sir… Lord Willis, sir." He began, "I don't remember a man coming, I just remember… I remember passing out," He covered his face with his hand, "I remember…" His hand crept up towards his head, and he suddenly yelped as his feeling hand reached a particular spot, "I think someone hit me on the head, sir. That man you speak of, I don't remember his face. I don't even remember footsteps… I can't recall-"

"Head trauma," Stocker stated simply and moved to the confused lad, he pulled the younger hand away and studied what lay beneath. Maybelle leaned her head towards them to get a better look, "It will heal, but you might not remember what happened before and after the event. But I need you to try. And I apologize for splashing water on you, you had to wake up somehow."

The younger man nodded and his hand tried to move back to his head, but Stocker grasped his wrist and lowered it.

"I remember… It's all blurry. I was patrolling the hallway, and I think I saw an impression of black, some form that I saw at the corner of my eye,"

"Yes!" Maybelle suddenly blurted, "He was wearing black, that's what I've seen."

The reassurance kept the lad going. All three eyes were fixed on him. Stocker moved around the boy and looked at his colorless face.

"I don't remember what he did to me. I tried to turn around, but I was already on the ground, doubling in pain. Then… then it all faded. The weapon he hit me with, it was…" He paused and gaped at the crowded table, as if the answer lay somewhere atop it, "It was metal, it felt cold, and powerful. It might be a cane. There was… a pointed end and a blunt one. I woke in the library, just now. I might've opened my eyes some times. I thought I was ran-tan, thought myself already in my bed, maybe that man himself put me in there…" He wanted to continue, but nothing came out of his mouth.

"That's good, do you remember anything else?" Stocker asked, earning a shake of Glen's head, "Would you possibly recognize him if you were to see him again?"

Glen tilted his head, thinking, "Perhaps. I don't know."

Lord Willis moved around the table, "And do you remember someone else with him, someone who helped him through his plan?"

Glen shook his head.

"What of our employees, do you think any of the servants helped him open the door?" Stocker asked the Viscount.

"Unlikely," The plump man answered, but Stocker's question made him knit his eyebrows all of a sudden, "Tell me, lad. Did anyone, anyone at all that you know, come close to this door behind you? Other than myself, Mr. Stocker, and you?"

Maybelle's hair stood on end, she wanted to exit the office, run out of the estate, and flee London using the next available transportation. Glen's eyes drifted to the ground, finding the texture brutally interesting. Maybelle prayed that he wouldn't tell. Prayed that somehow the hit on his head made him forget up to a year. Perhaps she could tell the Viscount herself, maybe he would forgive her. Maybe for once he will see her as his niece, and not as some employee he could abuse and kick out whenever he wanted. She remained perfectly still as her eyes burned holes into Glen's back.

When Lord Willis noticed his silence, he stepped forward and stood alongside Stocker. He placed his hands upon Glen's shoulders. The collective presence of those two men, a hardened fighter and a Viscount, could unnerve any man, and might simply kill the poor lad.

"You can tell me, boy. No one's going to hurt you," And when he saw that he didn't budge at the statement, he added, "And if you answer my question, and tell me who exactly was here before that man came, I will pull your siblings out of the workhouse. I swear it, I will not let them rot in that dreadful misery for a second longer. I will rain crowns on them, I swear it."

If kind words didn't instill anything in the boy, then bribery was a cousin that will get the words pouring out of any man who valued his worth. Or simply valued riches.

Glen looked up at the Viscount with renewed hope, and a smile began to grow on his lips. Lord Willis smiled back, nodding to the boy to spur him on.

"Yes, sir. Someone was near the door, in fact, they entered the office and raked through some of the papers on the table,"

Maybelle's nails dug into her hands, she couldn't even swallow. She couldn't even breathe. Stocker noticed her changing demeanor and looked over the lad's shoulder at her. His eyes grew serious and stayed fixed on her.

"And who was it, boy? Speak." Lord Willis urged him to continue as he shifted his weight between his legs.

"It was…" Glen hesitated, but looked back at Maybelle. Two eyes were now watching her. "It was Maybelle, the roof's riflewoman." He nodded towards her with a numb expression.

The last pair of eyes landed on her, and the emotion they held within wasn't anger. It wasn't bafflement. And it couldn't have been fear. It took Maybelle a moment to realize that it was disappointment.


	3. Chapter 3

Instead of ridding her of her job and throwing her in the streets along with his secrets, Lord Willis imprisoned Maybelle in a dank portion of the attic that was used for storing unused furniture. Men who carried the expensive tables and chairs up from the parlor, decades ago, covered them with white linen that became almost yellow through time. The whole room was drowning in dust and a man couldn't walk across without disturbing the majority of it. Maybelle found herself coughing the first few nights, but as the days passed on, the itch in her throat faded out of her attention, and her thoughts drifted to more pressing manners.

First, Glen was a conniving, back-stabbing, lying, miserable excuse of a man. And she wouldn't let him get away with what he's done.

Second, the quality of the food they sent up was degrading as each day passed.

And finally- her uncle was going to let her die in his attic.

Perhaps a lone rat, that deceived the monthly visit of the rat-catcher, will emerge out of the darkness and bite a portion of her finger off. Before it finished chewing on the flesh, she would drop dead by a terrible disease.

Or maybe they will gradually stop sending servants to carry her food. And she will starve to death as she tries to eat dusty shards of wood for moisture.

Or maybe it will quick, and loud. Stocker, or the Viscount himself, will let their boots be ruined by dust to wipe her out of existence with a bullet through her skull. Her uncle would like that—the information she gathered from his office and into her head will be pulled apart for a fleeting moment and then cease to be. One less head that knew his secret, one less hand that wanted the artifact for themselves.

Perhaps… perhaps she would do it herself. She would hang herself by the ropes that held the linens around some of the packed furniture. Or maybe even the stranger from before. The one with the face she began to associate with death. Maybe he was sent to kill her after all, and he would come to finish his work swiftly but painfully.

Sometime during her imprisonment, after finishing the only meal she got per day, she began to question how much time had passed. Was it weeks already? Was it a month? Or was it still the first day and her mind dreamed out the rest? The only thing that marked the time was the arrival of dinner at nine. Were the eighteen other dishes a figment of her imagination?

She slept the days and woke through the nights, still clinging onto the schedule Stocker often gave her. By day she thought and thought and ignored whoever gave her food or a bucket to do her bidding while murmuring quick words. By night she laid on the linen-covered sofa, and counted the dust motes that a lone lantern lit for her, until sleep finally took her away from this horrible place.

Her mind began conjuring what-ifs.

What if she never knew Glen, what if he never joined the squad that wore crimson and the coat-of-arms of Willis on their shoulders? What if her mother lived, her father never committed suicide, and her sister never disappeared one solemn, rainy night as she watched on? What if she simply died in her mother's womb? And most importantly, what if she considered the reason behind what held her back from picking the door to her uncle's office?

What if she reversed roles with Rosalie? For once she was the daughter of the Viscount that wore tight corsets and acted sweet and dainty when she met potential suitors. What if she was born in another place, perhaps another time, perhaps another existence?

By the end of the second week, she thought to herself until it physically appeared on her skin. She looked paler than she remembered- it made her look like a ghost, a sheet of paper. If she looked in a mirror she might find under the linens, she was sure to find dark halos around her eyes, a thinning form, and purple lips that trembled from the cold.

The two guards that escorted her up made her strip away her crimson uniform and dress in the thinnest breaches and shirt she'd ever seen. Not that she cared what she wore, anyway. But it wasn't a welcome change due to the lip-numbing cold of the attic. If someone wore her clothing outside, they would have to layer it with four coats to keep London's chill at bay. The attic didn't have a fireplace, but a great deal of rooms inside the manor had one. She missed sitting on the ground of the guard's quarters by the fire, staring into the flames as she plucked petals from a snagged rose and tossed them onto the coals.

By the start of the third week, her thoughts took a different turn.

Her hands were idly toying with the buttons on her shirt as she let her mind wander. For a good reason, the ground was warmer near the chimney that protruded from the midst of the attic. And the area around it was certainly warmer than the chairs and sofas strewn about, so she sat cross legged on the wood, leaned her back against the bricks, and closed her eyes. Her fingers touched the lone pearl that felt cold against her chest despite its constant proximity. She thought of her mother, how she had protected them from the worst of their father's abuse. How she stood between her daughters and the man she once thought was the only light that ever shone in the Kingdom. She thought of her sister, perhaps she is still out there, somewhere. Perhaps she didn't catch a disease or end up in a workhouse, or worse, an asylum. Maybe if she got out, if her uncle forgave her, she would look for her and find her wherever she was. And they would start a new life together. Myra and Maybelle Willis, against the overwhelming odds.

And what of her uncle? Two weeks is more than enough to find the man who stole from the Viscount, hang him by the neck, and find the artefact her uncle so desperately craved. With the unholy trinity of the three artefacts the plans mentioned, he will rule the world. And he will stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

She swore to herself the night after she learned of the artefact. She swore to herself as she dressed in her nightgown and splashed water against her neck. She swore she would recover the artefact. It was what she owed to herself after so many years of cowering away from both heights and men that rose above her.

And what woman would she be if she broke her oath to herself? She would be like Glen, who broke a promise as simple as keeping a secret. She would not become Glen. She refused it.

It was that thought that made her leave the warmth of the ground, and search for a way out.

The other portion of the attic was completely empty, perhaps it was once used as servant's quarters before the Viscount came into the picture and made it obsolete. The only window that gave her light through the day was a tiny, high gap in the furthest wall in the empty division. The window was hastily covered with cloth rather than glass, possibly when her uncle bought the house and renovated. Between her hunger, cold, and constant buzz of thoughts, she never entertained the idea of climbing down the miniature window onto the lawn below.

It was a plan a part of her hoped she would never think up.

* * *

She waited until midnight, and lit the oil lantern that she rationed properly with flint. The equipment was smuggled in by a maid approaching her second decade. She knew her face, but she never learned her name. She placed the lantern under the window and measured its height. With a strong leap, her hands could reach the window and latch on, but will she fit through? Her mind recalled a story published a decade ago, of a girl answering the request of a label and drinking from a bottle. She was granted freedom for her courage. Unfortunately, Maybelle wasn't that girl. But she still had courage.

Saying her mocking goodbyes to the dust, she jumped and wrapped her fingers around the ledge. She lifted herself and held her breath as one hand left the wood to tear at the withering fabric. Once it gave out, behind the dust came the sweet smell of crisp air. It was laced with the scent of flowers and smoke from the chimneys, but it was the most deliciously gratifying gulp of air she ever had.

She threw the fabric towards the attic and placed her hand back on the edge. She began the impossible feat of squeezing her body through the tiny window. She tried to climb out by pushing her head out and grasping blindly for a ledge, a loose stone, anything. But her fingers found nothing that could hold her weight. She pushed herself back in and steadied her breathing. Her arms began to cramp and the veins at the back of her hands appeared as her heart pumped blood and adrenaline through her form. The ache became too overwhelming, and she had to drop down. The boots she wore were thin and thoroughly aged, so her fall was partially masked by the worn leather. Maybelle hoped the servants were deaf to her landing, and no one bothered to investigate.

She almost felt like giving up, her arms hurt and the window somehow seemed further. But if she didn't escape, no one will ever let her out. The attic would be her grave. She shuddered at the notion and approached her plan differently. She lifted herself as far as she could and held onto one of the horizontal wooden bars that supported the ceiling in an intricate network, and pulled her body upwards until she could press her boots onto the frame of the window. She ignored the growing ache and lifted her feet until they hovered over the outer edge of her exit. She lowered herself as carefully as she could and managed to sit on the sill, the wall against her face.

Sucking in a breath, she flipped herself and hung from the ledge. Her feet struggled to find somewhere to rest until the she pressed her toes against the building. She relied mostly on the strength of her arms, reminding herself that looking down meant death. A minute later, her feet ran out of places to press against, and she found herself on the grass that covered the estate's backyard.

She almost fainted from the sheer force of happiness that filled her. She wanted to dance and kiss every leave, every flower that she passed by. But all she truly wanted was to flee the dreaded place that was her eternal prison long before she was placed in the attic and stripped of her rank. She dashed across the garden and skipped over loose stones and low bushes in her way. As she reached the fence, she noticed that she was thin enough to pass through the railings. Maybe the change occurred for the lack of food, or maybe her figure was always able to walk through the fence as if it wasn't there. She squeezed through with intermediate ease and ran, never looking back. Grosvenor square was usually bustling, but at midnight, it was empty save for the hansoms which transported late men from clubs and brothels. It would be suicide to walk through some parts of London at midnight. But Grosvenor Square was graced by the occasional police patrol that kept most shady characters away from the peers.

She found herself crossing the circular garden while her arms wrapped around her chest, feet too numb and nose almost falling off from the cold. It astonished her how quickly her temperature changed, but she was wearing items of clothing that made her feel naked. Most of the freezing wind filtered through the thin material, and before long, her teeth were audibly chattering against each other. She didn't bother to stop them.

Her eyes drifted to a tree on the edge of the garden. Her feet begged her to stop under it and sleep the cold away, but it was far too close to the Willis estate. Once she woke, she was bound to find herself recaptured and thrown into the attic again. She has to keep going.

She walked by the stone pavement and avoided an approaching hansom. Her pockets were empty, and all of her pounds were at her quarters—perhaps stolen, perhaps untouched, but still too far away. She continued through Mount Row and to her right appeared Berkeley Square. Many of her uncle's acquaintances lived there, could she possibly crash for the night at their manors? Of course not. She never trusted a soul that ever came to one of Willis' get-togethers. They might not turn her away, but once the sun comes up, they will turn her in.

She crossed the dreaded place quickly, and instead made a bee line towards Hill Street. The steps she took became weaker and weaker the more she pushed herself on. Above her, a man tossed his book and stared at her behind the window of his flat. His face was lit by gaslight, and for a moment Maybelle was certain she knew him. But the man continued reading, unfazed, and Maybelle tore herself away.

It started raining, but the smell of mist indicated the possibility before she fled the estate. She pulled her arms closer to her body and kept her head down. Every now and then she'd hear the steady thrum of horseshoes on cobblestone, and she would force herself to stray closer to the wall and avoid the driver's pitiful gaze.

Perhaps her plan wasn't so smart after all.

Her legs took her through a random direction as she tried to come up with a plan. Would she go back and pretend she never climbed out of that window? Her uncle would surely kill her, no one will know. The man will drown her in the Thames with lead in her pockets, and a hundred years later will she float to reveal his crime. She could look for another job and leave her old life behind for good, the new beginning she always wanted. But she might not last the night without catching pneumonia.

She felt her heart slowing, and she couldn't force herself to take one more step. A thought told her to look for a fire, but she reminded herself that she wasn't in the estate anymore. She spent most of her time inside that blasted fence- either sleeping, eating, or protecting the dogmatic reign of her uncle on his own estate by any means necessary. The other life she knew faded eons ago when half her family was placed in the ground. She could not recall a happy memory from her old life without finding an eerie fog shrouding it. All of those were gnarled in her mind when her family was torn away from the roots, leaving nothing but decay and peculiar, empty dreams behind.

She stood in the pouring rain as she shook and looked for shelter. The fabric she wore was drenched and she was sure her nose was running freely. She would find it offbeat if the night ended with her body still uninvaded by illness. She moved towards an alley between two flats made of bricks painted white, the building on the right had the soft glow of a fire brightening a room behind the window. She tore her gaze away from the allure of the light as it danced along the ceiling. She pushed her sagging fringe away from her eyes, she could hear little else than thick droplets hitting pavement.

Once she crossed half of the alley, she reached a lone gaslight that softly chased the dark. The light seeped through the droplets of rain that cascaded down the glass, casting tiny specks of color against the grey wall across. She sat under the lamp with her knees touching her chin, her body leaning towards the cool metallic base. Behind her in the flat an argument erupted between a man and his shrill-voiced wife. They spoke of lost groceries and blamed the ordeal on each other. She listened to their rain-muffled voice until her eyes closed of their own accord.


	4. Chapter 4

**_As long as poverty, injustice and gross inequality persist in our world, none of us can truly rest. ~ Nelson Mandela_**

* * *

"Ma'am, are you alright?" A man's voice nudged her awake, she almost flinched away and wanted to stand up and flee. But her legs seemed to have stopped working.

She finally opened her eyes and looked up. Her gaze saw a young man with curling auburn hair that gathered mostly at the front of his head, his stubble was light on his cheeks and his deep-set grey eyes were concerned as they looked down at her. He couldn't have been beyond twenty-five—she found blemishes dotting his chin and forehead.

"Are you alright? Did you fall?" The man put a hand out for her to take, with his other holding his top hat by the rim. She eyed his palm with parted lips, then her eyes landed on him with obvious hesitation.

"Come now, I wouldn't let a lady rest on the ground like so," She still looked up at him, brows furrowed, "Leander Morvell's the name, ma'am. I will not hurt you." He grinned at her with a set of pointed teeth.

Maybelle took his hand, her worried eyes kept on him as she watched his movements. His hand was soft, the hand of a man who has never worked a day in his life. He helped her up and released her. Her clothes were muddy and larger than she remembered, but at least they were dry. An itch rose up her throat, and she coughed in response. She knew it. It would've been a miracle if her health stayed the same after that sort of weather.

"What's your name, ma'am?" He asked, placing his top hat back on his head.

She decided to only give him her first name, could never be too careful, "Maybelle."

The corners of his lips lifted into a tiny smile, but his eyes were questioning, "Maybelle…?"

"Call me Maybelle and don't worry about basic etiquette. God knows I haven't got time for it in my current state." She looked away.

His silence meant he was taken aback, but she spotted him shrugging, "Very well, miss Maybelle. Could you tell me if you're in need of assistance?"

Her eyes came back to his gray ones. Her skin was getting paler and she was somehow still shivering, despite the sliver of sunlight that invaded the clouds. She was hungry. And she was slightly nauseous. But she couldn't tell this curious stranger what ailed her.

"No, sir. It wouldn't be proper to ask anything of you,"

He shook his head quickly, "Nonsense. I wouldn't be a gentleman if I left you in such a state," He let himself study the mud on her clothes briefly, "Were you mugged? Or perhaps your husband sent you away? Goodness knows I've seen a woman who lost everything to her mad husband," He mumbled.

"Excuse me, sir. But dare I ask you something?" She crossed her arms and bit her lip.

"Of course, m'lady."

"Why did you come to my aid? I look like an older version of a street urchin who had her very first pint of beer last night."

A smile crept over his face, "You don't look like the creature you described. If only you could tell me your surname, perhaps I'll know you. Or know what happened to you."

She scowled, "I'm afraid I can't. I can't trust anyone, I apologize."

He tilted his head in question, "Why are you so afraid? Is someone after you, m'lady?" He must have noticed the way she looked left and right, waiting for someone to jump out of a corner to seize her.

She bit her lip and merely looked at him with saddened eyes. As by nature, the man looked over his shoulder to check for whoever was chasing Maybelle, but found no one but normal men and women going about their day, never sparing them a glance. He turned back to her and gave her a onceover.

"Miss, you seem troubled. Let me help you." He offered quietly, his head leaning towards her which made his top hat sink deeper down his forehead.

"I hardly think that would be appropriate, sir." She repeated.

He shook his head, "That is not an offer I'm willing to drop that easily. My father will help you- he has a soft heart for people who are in need."

"Me? In need?" She scoffed, but then remembered that she had nothing except the thin clothing on her back. She huffed, "I… I couldn't-"

"Please, don't worry. We'll give you food and clothing and you can be on your way. What say you?" He beamed at her, waiting.

She looked away from him and towards the gaslight that saved her soul last night. The warmth that floated away from it never reached her, but indeed, it's mere presence made her heart content. As if she was still resting inside sturdy walls. She missed the warmth…

When she peeked at Leander, he was still waiting with that goofy grin plastered on his face. She admired his persistence, at least.

She began nodding lightly, "Very well. But know this," She raised a finger at him, "I _will_ repay your kindness. There's no way I'll let you give me things and expect nothing in return."

He snorted, looking at her if she was a silly little child making a pinkie promise to one of her alleyway playmates, "Very well, m'lady. Now, if you may," He gestured to the street, and began walking. She followed.

The man never gave her his arm. A part of her said that he was ashamed of being seen with such a raggedly-looking woman, but it was daytime. There was no need for being tugged around.

She walked alongside him, the man giving her the wall and slightly taking the lead towards a waiting carriage with a driver in black gingerly checking the state of his waistcoat. The reins were still in his hands—did Leander really stop for her?

When they reached the carriage, the driver dropped from his seat and opened the door. The elderly man had a great beard that hid his polite smile from the curious onlooker. He offered his hand and helped her up. Leander entered and closed the door, parking himself on the backward-facing seat. The horse began to move at a brisk canter.

Sighing, she turned her head away from her male-companion and looked out the window. This was not what she planned—leeching off a few rich men until she found a way out of London. But then again, she never had a plan at all. Who would? It's not as if she ever got out of the estate for anything but buying a new revolver or two when Stocker was too busy. Or when he wanted to test her aptitude in choosing firearms.

The glass was dirtied from last night's rain, dust collecting and revealing the spots where raindrops once were. But she still found London clear and beautiful as the carriage roamed through streets and paths.

* * *

It took the horse twenty minutes until the driver decided to stop by a large manor. Maybelle wasn't surprised—Leander's coat alone must've cost him twelve pounds, not to mention his top hat and his waistcoat.

"Home," He simply said and cracked one of those smiles.

The driver came down and opened the door again, offering his hand. Leander scooted back and nodded to Maybelle, so she shrugged and awkwardly went around the man and climbed down. Leander followed.

"Now, I'll call on Belle and she'll get you something to eat. Meanwhile you can meet my father." He took the lead again and went through a large metal gate that was wide open to anyone who walked by.

Maybelle took a moment to notice the beautiful garden the Morvell estate had. The lawn was paler than what her uncle had, but still had a refreshing feel to it. Blooming daffodils took most of the garden's choice of flowers. And there were so many that at first Maybelle felt the yellow was overpowering, but it smelled wonderful. She ached to bend down and pluck one of them for her hair.

The house itself looked old-fashioned, as if it wasn't renovated when it was bought. But the white stone somehow looked clean to her even with all the usual soot that gathered on most walls in London. Simply beautiful, she thought.

Leander climbed the steps, opened the door, and walked in. Maybelle stood there, wondering if she should see herself in. She felt eyes on her, and when she looked to the source she noted it was a maid inside another outsized manor to her left. The young woman was watching her with eager eyes and a smirk that promised gossip. She ignored the redhead and eyed the half-open door. The wind was slowly guiding it to a close, so she took the chance and sauntered in.

"Yes, Belle. Today's breakfast, not yesterday's." Leander's voice came from one of the large rooms. Stairs right in front of her hugged the walls for three storeys. An open door sat under it, and the walls of the room behind the door had aged blue wallpaper that depicted a pattern of flowers. She supposed it was the door to the cellar.

Leander emerged from what looked like the drawing room. His hat was off and he tossed it on a velvet armchair, his coat faced a similar treatment. The man was somewhat lean under his outerwear. He looked at her loosening bun, then at her face, "Perhaps I could tell Janet to run you a bath, as well?"

She pushed a strand of charcoal hair out of her eyes, "No sir, that wouldn't be necessary."

He gave her a cheeky grin, then stood and ogled her as if he noticed something crawling on her face. She lifted her brows.

"You asked me how I knew you weren't some beggar or thief seeking the usual shelter," He said, hands going to his hips, "Well, you don't exactly sound or behave like the common rabble."

She smirked, giggling out of nowhere, "Oh, thank you."

"That wasn't meant as a compliment, but alright." He kept his smile up, "Oh where are my manners, come on. I'll introduce you to my father." He eagerly offered his arm, she smiled and took it.

He led her to the parlor, where an aging man with a balding hairline sat at a couch, sifting through cards and letters. His knees crossed and his spectacles on his nose. Leander cleared his throat, and the man looked up. His eyes were black, almost beady.

"Father, how are you today? Doing well?" Leander said and clutched Maybelle by the shoulders, nudging her forward, "This is Maybelle. I found her close to Berkeley Square. She won't tell me her story, but something obviously happened to her as of late."

The elderly man glanced at her, then his eyes instantly warmed. He tossed the opened letter to the side and smiled. The Morvells' sunshine smile was apparently an inherited trait.

"Come, my lady," He waved her to an armchair, where she cautiously took a seat. The furniture was velvet and her clothes might've left tokens of gratitude in the form of mud all over the carriage, she didn't want the same to happen to the armchair.

Leander took a seat across his father, on a couch. On a coffee table in front of him laid a platter full of colorful fruits. Some of them she couldn't recognize—possibly impossible to grow in London. He plucked a strawberry and began to remove the stem and leaves.

"Welcome, Maybelle," Leander's father said, "My name is Elwood Morvell,"

"Pleased to meet you." May said, putting her hands in her lap.

"I am only here to help," He said, as if sensing her apprehension, "I help people from all over London. A few orphans from Southwark come here twice a week for dinner, but sometimes I let someone deliver the meals to them."

"There's also Lady Steen," Leander pointed out as he wiped his mouth, "She lost two of her children to typhoid, and one to cholera. Quite tragic, indeed. We took her in almost two years after she lost her kids."

"And what of her husband?" May said.

"He died in a factory accident almost five years before. The family's newfound poverty was what ruined them. They began drinking from wells dangerously close to the sewers."

"I see how they passed," May bit her lip and tried not to imagine how a mother would feel if her children died, one by one, while all she could do is cry and watch.

Maybelle heard a ruckus in the kitchen while Leander chewed away at fruits. His lips began to turn red, resembling messy lipstick.

"So, that's what we do here," Elwood stated as he ogled his son, "We try to help, in any way we can. We give life to people who need it, because we have too much of it. Why not share comfort if you could?"

His earnest smile was somehow lost on her, and she held her tongue as she stared at the man. Was he serious? She knew most of people in Mayfair wouldn't treat his benevolence as a sign of goodness, they must think of him a madman for choosing to give away his fortune and not spending it on a nice estate in the country. Same goes for associating with low-born families. Not everyone was a charitable soul in London—not in her experience.

"I'm sorry, but… You're serious, aren't you?" She asked him, then at the slight down-turn of his lips, regretted her decision, "I mean, of course you are! Forgive my astonishment, but… you're a saint, God knows I haven't seen many saints in my life."

His brief chuckle was almost inaudible, "Well, London needs more of the rich to give to the poor. My help alone won't be making much difference, you see, the situation is overwhelming…"

"Yes, I know. I might not have been to boroughs like Lambeth and Greenwich and so forth, but I do know what poverty feels like," She paused, recalling her uncle's estate, "At least I had a roof over my head that never leaked, and the smell wasn't of manure and coal fires because the garden masked that. But…"

"So you've lived in a house with a garden?" His voice grew intrigued, "Was it perhaps a small home with a back garden for carrots and tomatoes, or were you living in an estate like this," He held his arms out.

"Umm," She gave herself out. But she thought it didn't matter much—they seemed a decent bunch who would probably not report her for indecency for what she's done, "Yes, I lived in a manor on Grosvenor Square, but I wasn't the daughter of some rich aristocrat, no offence. I worked for a man there as a… lookout, he's family."

Elwood's brows knitted and he leaned forward. Some of the letters flew to the ground, "He's family? Is he your father?"

The image of the drunkard who beat her mother for not making breakfast came to her mind, and she pushed it away, "No, he's not. He's my uncle- although I'm not sure whose company I'd prefer most."

He smiled at her. This time it made her feel like the daughter of someone. The smiles were welcome after so many frowns from Stocker, but were slightly uncanny.

"Family issues, eh?" He paused and looked on as Leander popped a grape into his mouth, "I will not ask you what became of your father or the rest of your family, so I'll assume your uncle adopted you?"

"For a while, and it wasn't official or written in any papers. He then decided one daughter was enough."

"I see," He scratched at his mustache and regarded her with a crinkle between his brows, "It is not my business to know your affairs. But if you need a place to stay, there are plenty of spare rooms our maids clean but we never use. There's one with your name on it if you want it."

She stopped herself from gasping, "Oh… Umm, I don't think that- I mean I don't want to cause you any trouble…"

"No trouble. This is our passion." He smiled yet again and rose, looking at the mess of letters, "I suppose Belle will have to take care of this… It has been a pleasure m'lady, I'm afraid I'll have to depart for I am deeply busy. Should you need anything, tell Leander and he'll come right to me," He pointed at his son, who had juices running down his chin and ruining his breeches, then climbed up the stairs.

Ten minutes later, Belle called her to the dining room that was triple the size of her uncle's. She supposed the family used it to conduct feasts for the poor. This time, the table had a vast array of delicious meals she'd only dream of eating after one of her uncle's most lavish feasts. Strawberry and fig jam, sausage and cuts of meat. A bowl of fruits and tea, and hard boiled eggs, a staple in her diet.

She sat at the head of the table, where most of the food was placed, while Leander sat two seats away on her right. She looked at him, as if asking for permission to eat, and he nodded towards the food, laughing. He ran a hand through his curly hair and attacked the bowl of fruit while May nibbled bread slathered with jam. She was hungry, but she was afraid her usual barbaric display of devouring food could halt Leander's eating, and he would kick her out after recovering.

After breakfast, the maids offered her something to wear. Maybelle knew that after so many years of dressing in non-constricting clothing, it would be dramatically unbearable to squeeze into a corset without dying of asphyxiation. She asked for breeches and a shirt, and a coat would be pleasant to have as well. She earned a lot of weird looks.

They gave her an old riding habit. An expensive-looking waistcoat, embroidered with red. A long black overcoat, and some sturdy breeches. She couldn't be happier to shed the muddy clothes her uncle forced her to wear. And when the maids offered to send the rags to the laundry, she told them to burn them for warmth.

* * *

Night came with vigor—as quick as she's ever witnessed. It made her gain perspective about the actual length of a day when she was resting in an armchair, a mug of tea in hand, listening to the clippety-clop of horses as she watched on in her new room. It took her a while to fully wrap her head around the fact that she wasn't home anymore—there was no Stocker to give her a headache when she climbed down to get a snack. There was no Lord Willis who threw parties every month and never gave her a chance to see them up close. And there was definitely no Glen to rat her out and throw her to the two wolves she once rather stomached.

She didn't want it to last long—she had something to do, after all. But it was still amazing to finally breathe, just _breathe_ , when all she did was pant since she was a child.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.** **Confucius.**_

* * *

After a dreamless night and a hefty breakfast, Maybelle found herself exploring the manor. The first thing noticeable was the many empty bedrooms that might've once been family-only living rooms or music rooms. The theme of the rooms was unified—same wallpaper, same wood that covered the flooring and made the furniture, and same linens and curtains. As if Mr. Morvell had them commissioned by the same builder, at the same time. Nonetheless, the rooms were beautiful and were not hastily thrown together to accommodate the poor.

One bedroom she entered was empty, but the bed wasn't made. The rosary on the bed, the drawn curtains, and the dark dress that was draped over an armchair gave Maybelle an insight about the owner of this room. It was the widow.

When she reached the third story, she heard humming. A feminine voice that was crooning tunelessly. It was coming from a room on the left of the corridor. Light was streaming out of the room, so harsh that it made the corridor seem dim in comparison. She squinted against the light and walked to the source. With every step, the smell of oil began to emerge and grow. It was apparent the room was made for painting when she stood at the doorframe.

The room was in absolute havoc. Finished and unfinished paintings alike rested with their colored faces against the wall, which was smeared with oil paint. Sometimes meaninglessly or as a result of clumsy handling, or to trace a part of the black-and-white fox that strutted across the blue paint. The wood that made the ground was spattered with a rainbow of color and some liquids that almost burned through it, leaving a black spot behind.

By the window was an easel, and by the easel worked a brunette wearing a blacksmith's apron over a pastel dress. Her elegant fingers dabbled with a brush and a wooden palate, mixing colors until she felt just right. Maybelle knocked at the doorframe.

"Come in." The brunette said, then continued humming.

May opened her mouth to excuse herself. The girl probably thought the intruder was family, or at least a friend. But May moved in without a word.

"Hello. I'm… uh, I'm Mr. Morvell's new guest." She tried to introduce.

The girl spared a glance at her palette, then looked at her. She had the beady eyes of her father's. And definitely his smile. But her canine tooth was missing. Maybelle focused away from the woman's mouth.

"Hello, nice to meet you. I'm Jennie Morvell, Mr. Morvell's daughter." She gave her hand but realized it was coated from top to bottom with paint, she grimaced, "Excuse the mess, I'm… often not at my cleanest when I'm painting."

"It's alright, not the worst thing I've seen, god knows," May shook Jennie's hand. Colors smeared on her fingers, "What are you painting, may I see?"

The brunette agreed and Maybelle studied the painting, it was a bridge over the river Thames. The sky was dark but lit by a half moon, the sky was absolutely clear, and was devoid of stars. A white horse was trotting on the bridge, hair long and almost illuminated by the moonlight. A rider sat atop the saddle, reins in hands. The rider wore a black hat, almost invisible against the background. No other horses or carriages were using the bridge. Just this rider, and his horse. But the colors were so vivid, so mind-blowing, that May found herself staring with parted lips.

Only Jennie's snort woke her from the trance, "It's not my best, I've done better work before."

"Are you…" May looked at the girl, then switched to the painting again, "Are you serious? This is… breathtaking."

Jennie licked her lips and sat her palette down on a table full of used brushes and vials of oil. She wiped her hands at the apron and rose from her stool to the paintings she laid against the wall. She looked from canvas to canvas before she chose one with a blue splotch of paint on the wooden frame. Jennie flipped the canvas and showed it to Maybelle.

"This one's my best, made it when I first started painting." The brunette said—almost too proudly.

But Maybelle didn't understand- the painting was the same. Same bridge, same river, same sky, same moon. Same horse and its rider. But this time, the sky had stars, and the cobblestone beneath the horse's hooves was red, and the hooves themselves were red. As if the beast stepped into a can full of crimson paint… or someone pulled a knife along its feet. The rider had removed the hat this time, and donned a white ribbon instead. She realized the rider was a woman—her brown hair was long and curling as it flowed, almost floated from the speed the mare was galloping at. The colors were richer, if that was even possible, than the unfinished painting that stood against the easel.

Maybelle couldn't hear herself taking a breath, so she forced her lungs to restart.

"It's…" She tried, "Beautiful."

"My favorite," Jennie said, then placed the painting back down and picked up another at random, "Hmm?" She asked as she peered over the frame.

Light sky, no clouds, rider wearing black, black cobblestone, red river, and most eerily—a half sun.

"Yeah…" Maybelle croaked. She slightly shook as she eyed the unnatural sun, convincing herself it was a half wheel of cheese instead.

Jennie sat the canvas back down and glanced at the painting she was working on. When she looked back at Maybelle, her eyes were welling with tears. Could it be something she unknowingly said?

"What's wrong?" May asked, worry growing in her chest.

Jennie's lip trembled, "You think I'm mad, don't you?"

The question came out of nowhere, but Maybelle found her inner thoughts instantly agreeing. The indifference in Jennie's eyes as she displayed each painting made Maybelle assume things… She was disgusted at herself, "No! Why would I think that?"

"Because everyone else thinks so. The girl whose father turned into a cloud that rained shillings and guineas on the poor after being someone else for too long. The girl who no longer goes out on tea parties and stupid balls because she was too busy painting. The girl who couldn't take a husband because he wanted her to leave painting and tend to him and his children. I couldn't… I can't stop-" The young woman was crying now, eyes red and cheeks gaining a flush. Maybelle didn't know what to say or do.

"Hey… could you, uh, tell me what happened from the beginning? It's alright, you can tell me." She pulled the weeping girl towards the window, and slightly closed the wide-open shutters.

"I could… I could tell you? Like a friend?"

Maybelle tried to guess her age as she studied the freckles on her nose and cheeks, "Yes, like a friend." May smiled.

"I-umm, where should I start?" She wiped at her eyes.

May didn't know what she was looking for, "Start from the beginning, why did your father suddenly help others. You mentioned that, right?"

Jennie hummed, taking peeks at the older woman, "Yes. He wasn't like this before… before I-" She sobbed. Maybelle wondered if she was pushing the young woman too far to hear her story.

"It's okay, take a deep breath. And if you don't want to tell me anymore, I can forget. It's okay."

"No! No… I need to tell someone, another lady, a friend."

"Then, go ahead." Maybelle leaned her temple against the cold glass and waited for the words. She tried not looking at Jennie directly, maybe she found direct speech too intimidating.

"Well, it was a dark night. Like this one in the painting," She pointed towards the easel, "Darkest than I could ever remember, but the moon was out. Half of it, at least. I was riding my Arabian across the Westminster Bridge, going home. She ran so fast that I couldn't see anyone else, they were all a blur. I laughed, the wind was in my hair and against my cheek. I retied my ribbon before I rode but it loosened until it flew towards the Thames. I never looked back to see it fly, it was the best moment of my life," She paused and took a breath, but it didn't calm her. She started sobbing again.

Maybelle sighed and chewed her tongue, waiting.

"My… my hair went into my eyes, and I wanted to pull the reins and stop Tara as I move the strands of hair, but I didn't think it was such an importance. Not back then."

"And then?" May said, breath misting at the window.

"I couldn't see what was happening. I heard someone yell at me, a man, maybe a driver. Tara's hoof bumped into the carriage wheels. I panicked and pulled at her reins, she backed up and stood on her hind legs. I think she was frightened as well because her rider was. She fell backwards onto the cobblestone and I fell away from her. Landed on my head several feet later. A carriage was coming at her quicker than the driver could stop it, and the wheels ran over Tara's belly before it collapsed and fell sideways. The driver fell onto the bridge railings and I felt myself passing out. I woke three days later to a world that had no Tara." She finished, her wide eyes indicating her surprise about finally getting the story out to someone.

Maybelle sat up and stared in silence, eyes glistening and words mixing together, never forming something coherent. Jennie glanced at her through wet eyelashes and smiled sadly.

"When I lost my friend, I began wondering about what could've been. What could've happened differently that helped us avoid disaster. After I hit my head, I had to remain in bed for a month. But nothing was on my mind but Tara, and our perfect trip under the moonlight. My father begged me to talk to him, to say something, to stop crying. He prayed and prayed. Day and night. He told God that he would make the world a better place, but please, don't make his a horrible one. Give me back my daughter, he said, and I'll give everything to everyone."

Maybelle nodded twice at her, barely moving, "That's why he's so generous? God saved you? He listened to him?"

"He sold many of his belongings and for once had an economical mind. We used to live in the country, only here for The Season. I used to ride there with Tara… I..." She swallowed and toyed with her paint-splotched sleeves, "When I was done thinking, I wanted to do. I saw every chance, every opportunity, and every loophole that could've let her go on, kept her alive. If I was a gentleman and had short hair instead of long. If there was light and I could see. If there weren't anyone but us on that bridge. If Tara wasn't as fast as she was. If… if Tara was a dragon-"

"A dragon?" Maybelle laughed despite herself. Jennie stared, but then giggled alongside her.

"Yes, so we could fly instead of riding." Jennie smirked, then left the window and sat at her stool, "I still feel her with me, sometimes. When I ride the carriage or when I watch cricket. I feel as if she's watching me… or over me. I _am_ mad."

"No, no. You're not mad. Really, you aren't." May offered, drawing the curtains open again.

"You don't think so. But all these invitations I've refused while I remained in recluse after a having a mouthful of cobblestone, painting the same picture over and over again… it doesn't look sane for those who didn't know." Jennie shrugged.

"I understand. I've lived with these types for more time than I care to say." May moved to the wall and looked at the fox, perhaps there was a story behind that too? She had to ask Jennie some other time.

The room went silent as both recovered from the story. But Jennie surprised May by asking, "You're not going to tell anyone, are you now?"

"Me?!" She whipped and shrieked theatrically, "I never tell. Promise!"

The brunette snorted at her, "Good, then."

An idea snagged Maybelle's attention at once, but she felt horrible for considering it, since the woman was still recovering from a near-nervous-breakdown, "Hey, if I told you to paint something… or someone, to be precise. Just a quick sketch, would you say yes? I know I'm not in a position to ask that of you, but it would help me, immensely."

Jennie paused and her eyes searched the painted canvas for answers, "Maybe. What is it that you need, exactly?"

"There was a man, he… did horrible things. I need to talk to him, I think."

"Why would you want to talk to a man like so?" Jennie asked, raising a thin brow.

"To… change things. I want him to pay for what he's done."

"And what did he do?"

Maybelle stifled a sigh, "He killed my friends and tried to kill me, I need to find him and I need someone to paint a portrait of him. You know, so I could… find him?"

The silence appeared to Maybelle as a well-known manifestation of the word 'No'.

"Alright, I'll do it." Jennie rose from her stool and stepped forward.

"You will?" Maybelle thought on Jennie's words until it clicked, "You will!" She beamed.

The young woman nodded, hair flying around her face and a strand sticking to a splotch of paint on her chin, "I will. Tomorrow, come to me tomorrow after breakfast." She instantly turned to the table and put her hands on her hips, wondering what she needed.

A painter who believed in ghosts was exactly what Maybelle needed. And a new project that wasn't a twisted variation of the same scene was what Jennie wanted. But their mutual desire for a new friend was fulfilled as well—with cream pastry and tea on the side.


	6. Chapter 6

Maybelle couldn't wait for the next morning. All she had to do was get the illustration painted, and finally walk out to do some fieldwork. Three weeks of staring at a wooden wall wasn't her idea of fun, and the notion of another day inside a building almost made her queasy.

It's not as if she didn't enjoy the constant pampering Elwood was giving her. The lavish food at day, the fine silk she slept on at night. But they were all distractions that stopped her from going after what she really coveted—a way to liberate her beleaguered soul. She tossed and turned at night, expecting someone to appear from the shadows at the corner of her room to stab her in the guts. Answering her uncle's orders. That constant threat made the wariness of having to stay behind a locked door escalate further.

Her sleep was intercepted by dreams and buzzing thoughts through the night. A full moon was out, illuminating the faraway bridges that appeared on the horizon. She drew the curtains all the way and sat in an armchair, contemplating Jennie's story and unconsciously coming up with different scenarios for her friend to paint.

She ended up sleeping on the armchair. Her neck was aching and an angry line of red appeared where it was bent at an awkward angle.

* * *

After breakfast, Maybelle wore slippers and a corset-less charcoal dress the maids gave her. They probably thought she didn't look like much of a lady. She immediately climbed to the painting room. Jennie's hums were lower, but somehow, happier. She knocked at the doorframe as usual.

"Come in," Jennie said. She finished the painting she was working on, and she often darted her brush towards a random place to apply fixes.

"It's me, Jennie. It's Maybelle." May walked inside, standing next to the artist and giving the painting a once-over.

"Good morning, sleep well?" Jennie asked and put down her palette on the ruined table. May shrugged, avoiding the question.

"Can you… um, may I ask of you to-"

"The portrait, I suppose?" Jennie's lips quirked, "In a hurry?"

May scratched at her neck, "Yes, I suppose so. I'm eager to find the man and send him to the police," May wanted to do a lot of things to the man who ended the lives of four lookouts Stocker spent years on training, and May spent years feasting on boiled eggs with.

"Very well," Jennie sighed and kept the canvas on the easel to dry. She rose out of her seat and went to a cabinet by the door that held supplies—paper and coal pencils and ink pens. And a few colorful books at the lower shelf. She pulled at the brass handles, "You do know every detail of the man, yes?"

Maybelle jittered as his face came back to her, "Yes, every wrinkle and every freckle."

Jennie grabbed a paper and chose between a set of coal pencils, testing its pressure against the corner of the sheet she held. She began humming when she found the one and took her supplies to the large table. Cursing under her breath, she picked a piece of dirtied fabric off the ground and spread it on the emptiest place. She pushed away a few vials of water and oil, "Could you drag the stool for me?"

Maybelle obeyed and lifted the stool over her head. She put it down beside the brunette and hurried until she stood opposite her. The artist placed her paper and began sharpening the pencil. Maybelle leaned into a half-crouch and waited.

Jennie clutched the coal between her fingers and watched something invisible swim across the sheet, "What did his face look like? Bone structure, cheekbones, head?"

Maybelle pressed her eyes closed and recalled the night she almost died, "Square jaw. His head wasn't particularly wide, but his lips were small and that made his face look bigger… but they were somehow thick, he-"

"One step at a time," Jennie beamed cheerily and began tracing the man's head. Maybelle opened her eyes and as she observed, it felt as if Jennie was extracting the man out of her memories, "His nose, eyes?"

"Small, both of them. His eyes were this odd olive mixed with grass green," She would never forget the murderous glare that shone inside them so hard that she couldn't do much but watch, "Eyelashes small, eyebrows rather heavy."

Jennie followed perfectly, the man was gradually reappearing in front of her, this time manifesting as coal-smudges instead of a nightmare that kept her sleep-deprived for days, "What about his hair? And his clothes?"

"Dark, both of them…" She shuddered, "He was a ghost. I almost didn't see him coming."

It lasted for half an hour for the man to uncannily look towards her with a frown. Her instinct told her to run. The illustration was far more lifelike than she liked. She found it undeniably difficult to stare back at the man who once invaded and conquered the sacred boundaries of her comfort.

"Is this how he looked like?" Jennie called as she held up the sheet, leaning forward to peep at her handiwork.

"Yes, exactly like so." She gently took the paper from the woman's soot-covered hands and looked at it again. Surrounded by a halo of Jennie's fingerprints, the man glared at her in his drawn form, threatening to kill her even in such a feeble materialization. His eyes weren't even colored, but they burned at her with the hardest flame.

"That'll be eight pounds," Jennie glare was rigidly serious, which made the older woman peer up from the drawing with a startled look. Jennie tried to stifle a laugh, but failed miserably, "A jest! I'm sorry. I'm not taking anything from you, of course. You're my friend."

Maybelle paused then grinned at Jennie. What a lovely little creature.

* * *

It took at least a letter and two sheets of newspaper before Maybelle was convinced the illustration was wrapped well. The last thing she needed was rain innocently charging at her and turning the paper to a mixture of paper mush and coal.

Donning her outwear, she excused herself after she bumped into Leander on the stairwell.

He grinned surely, "I hear from the maids that you've been meeting with Jennie."

She paused, a pang of fear going through her. He seemed to notice her anxiety.

"Please, don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing your activities, in fact, she needs a friend as dearly as a fish needs water. She… wasn't in the best situation, some time back."

Maybelle shrugged, "She told me." Then she waited for the reaction with apprehension.

Leander parted his lips, "That's… wonderful. She has an issue opening up to people. How did you…?"

"Nothing, I just listened to her. I asked her about her paintings and she just… fell apart, I think. I'm sorry I sent her thoughts to _that_ night."

Leander shook his head, dismissive, "No matter, it's all good and well. She said she wanted to dine with us next time. She always has her food in her gallery." Leander drifted off, studying Maybelle, "You know, learning Jennie's story means you know many things about us. About my father, mostly. Has she told you anything?"

Maybelle stammered, "Ah, well. Not much… She told me what happened, and…"

"Whatever she told you, know only this- people call for aid when they're helpless, then proceed with their lives owing nothing to those who helped them. My father agreed to owe it to God or whatever higher power even after he was safe from the storm. That makes him the best man alive, in my opinion."

Maybelle thought about it. She could recall, with absolute clarity, the many times she was literally standing by the edge of death, praying, then going to sleep after her shift ended without thanking the power that kept her alive. People beg for mercy, and once it's given, they go back to their usual places, their head high. Leander was right—his father is the best man alive.

He refused to let her brush past him until she accepted pocketing two pounds. Enough for a long while of food and security until she found something to do. Depending on where she spent the night, food and a place to rest her head would cost her twenty-two shillings a week. He appeared to bitterly accept her departure, so she assured the man she was coming back to visit in a short notice, but she had some things to take care of.

Departing from the warmth of the Morvell estate, she strolled across the street and walked back and forth in front of a few shops. She hesitated as her hand touched the door handles until she shied away from the places. She couldn't ask about a criminal in Mayfair. Those people only considered robbers and killers a troublesome nuisance, and didn't know someone who knew someone who can arrange a faux-meeting with the man. She figured she was going in circles-and once more, without a plan- when a man bumped into her and told her to stop sleepwalking.

With a vexing itch at the nape of her neck, she realized she had to take a hansom or an omnibus to the East End. And she did. For a penny, starving men could point her in the right direction. And for a shilling or two, they would carry her to the man she wanted on their very shoulders. She thought about the idea as she paid the hansom driver and climbed down to look around her.

Westminster was an earthly heaven compared to Southwark. Families huddled around a barrel of fire, their faces dotted with smallpox. Small children brushed past her, searching for something to pluck out of a pocket. Her money was safely in her inner pocket, along with the treasured poster Jennie drew for her. But the sight of men and women raising their empty bowls to her as she passed made her want to give her savings away. But that would mean she had no food or water and no money for transportation. She kept an eye on anyone that appeared to have an offbeat interest in her.

The worst thing was not the muddy streets, it was the smell. At least back home the many flowers made her ignore the smell of London, but here the air stank of coal, sewage, and fresh manure. She practically gagged.

She pulled her coat tighter around her. It was rather chilly. She passed by two men on the ground with sullied apparel and frowns so deep they were almost itched into their faces. On her passing she felt one of them grab her by the ankle. She practically stumbled and swore, shaking her foot away.

"Off of me, you lout." She grumbled quietly to the man against the grey wooden fence.

"Please ma'am, have pity on the poor. A penny for potato scraps, please." The man begged, his eyes almost glistening and a hopeful edge to his scowl. Maybelle tugged at her ankle again.

"Sorry, my good sir. I'm just as poor as you are." She finally freed herself and dashed away from the duo. She never stopped until she turned behind the corner of the street.

A man a few steps forward caught her attention. He stood behind a cart of lined sheep trotters and attended to a bubbling, frothing pot above a coal fire. Every now and then the water would boil over and sizzle against the fire. A group of workers clustered by the cart and displayed their skills in haggling. Each time one of the four uttered an offer, the entrepreneur shook his head. She walked towards the cart, minding the spread legs of a boy lying against the brick wall, here for the mere smell of boiled meat.

She reached the cart and brushed past the bartering group, coming to the front. Her gaze fell to the trotters and for a second she wondered if she needed a snack.

"Look, boys. Price is two pennies. You can't negotiate your way to a measly one penny."

"That's rubbish!" The woman said, her eyes squinting in defiance, "Robby, just around the block, used to sell a trotter for a halfpenny!"

The seller rolled his eyes. His moustache moved when he gave the squabbling group a grimace, "Let me guess, he got his trotters from that shady looking fellow, Mr. Fisher. I suppose trotters would cost a halfpenny if they once belonged to a badger."

One of them men nudged Maybelle aside to look the food-seller in the eye, "You thrice-damned hornswoggler! If a bloke like you will have any pounds in his pocket, then I'm the prime-minister!"

The entrepreneur merely blinked at the man, his composure still in one piece. The group departed to lick their wounds in private, leaving a sour frown on the man's face as he stirred the pot.

Maybelle cleared her throat, "Excuse me, kind sir. I demand your aid in a matter."

His eyes remained glued to the bubbling liquid that had a slight tinge of red and brown, "And how can I be of service, hmm? Do you wish to inquire about the price to supply a gathering? I don't do haggling, so if you're like those idiots who got their dander up, I'm not helpin', ma'am."

She shrugged her shoulders, a critical eye aimed at the displayed meat, "No sir, not today. I have to ask you—you do know mostly everyone around here, no? I don't remember knowing anyone who doesn't like slurping sheep trotters."

He kept stirring, but finally looked at her, his irritation about the previous scene washed away by her proposal, "Perhaps I know some names, what of it?"

She pulled the illustration out of her jacket, unwrapped the many covers shielding it from the elements, then showed it to the man. One hand stayed on the metal spoon while the other took the paper from Maybelle's hands. He turned it several times and squinted at it as if it was fine writing, then gave the paper back to May.

He shook his head apologetically, lips pursing, "Haven't seen the man, but I bet he frequents the pubs. You could ask around once you're there. There's a pub after a five minutes' walk right around the corner. Name's the Kings Head pub."

May shoved the paper and its wrappings inside her pocket, and nodded to the man.

"Care for a trotter?" He waved to the meat.

Maybelle found herself idly counting them and imagining the taste. She tried street food before, and she became sick for a week, heaving her guts out until her eyes stung. She ought to know better, her stomach wouldn't tolerate street cuisine after living off homemade boiled eggs and bacon for most of her life.

"No, thank you." She nonetheless fished a penny out of her pocket and placed it in the man's grimy hand. He flashed a rotted smile at her and nodded.

She walked away from the man and into the bowls of the polluted borough. It was midday, and a lot of carriages passed by her and some stopped at the various shops among the dark buildings. Ironmongers and smithies. Carpenters and Turners. Every corner bustled with the sounds of hammering and sawing. Faraway chimneys spewed dark smoke that drifted upwards until it melded with the clouds. The ground beneath her feet was misty. She hopped over black puddles and moved around pools of mud. Young women carrying baskets of wilting flowers passed by her. As well as a bored-looking man with a wooden advertisement on his back that read ' _Boyer's golden syrup. Best in town. Sold in tins_ '.

Music became apparent to her ears when she finished sixteen minutes of walking. She read the faraway sign, The King's Head Pub was written in jutting golden letters. Her walk became a jog until she reached the place. From what she gathered as she peered inside the glass, it was relatively empty. Workers were still enduring the torture of fourteen hour shifts in the factories. But a few patrons who had nothing better to do gathered in small clusters around tables full of empty tankards and beer spillage. She made her way in, and the warmth of the glowing fireplace instantly embraced her.

Looking around for a few moments, she put her gloved hands in her pockets and walked towards the bar. A man in his forties looked up at her as he repeatedly scrubbed the surface with a dirty cloth. Counterproductive, Maybelle mused.

"'Ello, how can I help you? Care for a drink? I got some very good gin right here." The man offered, his chapped lips lifting politely.

"No thank you, I'm looking for something else right now." She took a seat at a stool, and looked the man in the eye, "I'm looking for a certain criminal. Well, I suppose he's a criminal since he did horrendous things that I had the displeasure of witnessing. I need to find him. Some shillings say you'll help me." She fished three coins from her inner pocket and slapped them on the bar. The man paused his scrubbing and his hand went to collect the money, but Maybelle covered them with her palm.

"Uh-uh, help me first and the shillings are yours."

He pursed his lips and looked at her, "Very well," He itched at his muttonchops, "How does this man look like?"

She got the illustration out and showed it to him. His composure melted for a few seconds, melding into brief recollection, then his bland expression reappeared.

His brows knitted, and he shook his head apologetically. He looked down at the rag between his fingers, "Can't say that I've seen him. Perhaps he doesn't walk these streets. I could arrange for you to meet a man who knows a lot of men in London. And for those he doesn't—he can gather information about their identity before the next drizzle. He even has connections with the police. They allow him to ask about whoever he damn well pleases. The man ain't rich, but he is undoubtedly resourceful."

Maybelle wasted no time, "What is his name?"

"Mr. Jude Sutton. I can't say he ever comes to my pub, but I know him because he had dealings with a bloke that does."

"And where can I find him, then?" She demanded through her teeth. She needed to meet the man more than anything. Not only he will lead her to her ghost, but he might be able to help her with securing a team to look for the artifact.

"Settle down and don't kick up a shine, ma'am," He leaned and rubbed vigorously at a stubborn brown spill on the wood, "I can arrange a meeting, but I will have to talk to my patron first. Now if you add two more shillings, I'll guarantee you'll have your meeting by next Tuesday, ma'am."

She rubbed her face and sighed. If she keeps bribing people, she won't be having dinner. But she _needed_ that meeting. She fished two shillings and let them drop with the rest. She pushed the pile towards him.

"Pleasure doing business." He declared, and wrote her name in a small ledger pulled from behind a row of bottles. Maybelle grunted in response, watching him carefully as he grinned. The man seemed to know something other than an identity of a spy, but it seemed that money won't get her very far in this case.

Today was Thursday. It will be a long while before she receives word about the meeting. She will either have to ration her pounds thoroughly, or crawl back to the Morvell's and beg for another handout. The idea made her sick. Back home at the Willis estate, she had all the food she needed ready at the squad's table, and her rations only increased as she grew and her muscles began to expand. She had a room she shared with the other woman, and a fireplace that was usually scorching hot. She never had to kneel for anything. And now, she had to ask for every meal.

She turned away from the bar and stuffed her hand inside her inner pocket, feeling the coins clink together and the two pounds scratch against her fingertips. Without bribery, the two pounds could last her a week and a half.

It was when she removed her hand and smoothed over her coat that she felt eyes on her. She began to study her surroundings carefully. A group of men in black played cards as they swallowed gin and smoked pipes. The undisturbed haze they created and the hushed tones of conversation made her unsure about validity of her suspicions. Nobody would care to look at a lone woman dressed in dark colors, minding her own business. Did they hear the subtle metal-upon-metal noise inside her pocket? That's impossible.

But her senses never betrayed her. It was often easy for her to spot a man as walked towards the estate, and recognize him as Stocker long before the guards at the gate let him in. Certainly her vision would find whoever was eyeing her with such keen interest? She searched the candle-lit pub once more, eyes probing through the smoke, but each patron had his focus on either a mug of beer or a handful of coins placed on the table, waiting for the right hand. Maybelle swiped a hand through her hair and moved on. Her mind was playing tricks on her, she thought.

She departed from the pub and chose a random direction. The sun was slowly dipping behind the buildings, she had perhaps another three hours of pointless but cathartic walking before she had to find an inn. The weather wasn't so bad—just a reluctant crisp coolness she felt through her open collar. She could walk for a long time—taking the sight of the city in, challenging herself to sample the foul street food the workers gulped with unhindered appetite. The only chance she got to do so was when Stocker secretly took the whole squad to their usual opium den, while Lord Willis departed to the countryside for a swift glimpse at his lands there. Before sealing their fate and falling asleep at the den, Stocker would give them time and a small allowance to roam about St Giles and have a taste of unimpeded liberty. That was one of the few things she missed about donning the crimson uniform.

Maybelle stared down at her feet as they carried her to an unknown destination. She ended up near Waterloo Junction Station. Then she felt it again, eyes almost burning a hole through her back. She whipped around, and a man wearing black-stained breeches and a brown cap bumped into her shoulder, sending her almost backwards. He kept his eyes forward, muttered a hasty apology, and moved on. Through the corner of her eye she noted a blur scurrying to hide behind an alleyway. On impulse, her hand went to the bulge beneath her coat. Her heart beat faster. She might get mugged soon, she thought. Her eyes found the nearest gathering of people—workers mingling outside of a soap factory across the busy road. She rushed to them, shouting an apology to the carriage drivers that swore at her and pulled harshly at the reins. The protesting whinnies of many horses echoed in her ears.

She looked over her shoulder once she safely made it to the other side. No one watched her beyond the occasional curious passerby who witnessed the commotion.

She turned and stepped through the dozen employees as they chatted and playfully shoved each other's shoulders. Maybelle passed a rather short man who gently seized her by the arm.

"Excuse me, ma'am. This factory belongs to Mr. Bartlett, no citizens are allowed at the premise. Too many dangerous equipment." His dark eyes roamed her body unrestricted, attempting to size her up and figure out her intentions.

She tried to free herself from his grasp, but it was uncomfortably strong, "I never wanted to enter, sir. I simply…" Wanted to disappear, she ached to explain to him. But he would get the impression that she's paranoid and confused, and he would start asking questions. She needed none of that. Her neck turned and she stared through the mumbling crowd at the faraway pavement she stood on moments ago, and it was still clear of any threats to her money or well-being.

"You simply… what?" The man tugged at her arm, regaining her attention, "Are you in trouble?"

"Me? No," She said firmly and peeled his hand away from her arm. She pushed through the throng, earning a multitude of curses and threats.

She dashed away from the factory, keeping to the same street as her eyes searched for sanctuary. Her cheeks were red from the embarrassment of having to face a near-interrogation and the brief constriction of freedom.

She ran through Wotton Street and stopped at an alley between two slightly-overlooked shops. No one saw her as she leaned over the wall and let her chest heave as her eyelids drooped, eagerly gulping air that was tinged with the bitter taste of coal. She placed a hand over her chest and willed her hyperventilation to stop. She possibly looked like a madwoman or a runaway criminal with her bulging eyes and shaking figure.

She took a final deep breath and pushed away from the wall. She wanted to walk out of the alley and perhaps read the names of the two shops that presented a chance to practically collapse in private.

Instantaneously, she felt the dreaded presence reappear behind her. A rough hand clamped over her shoulder and another forced a white cloth against her face. Her heart leapt in her throat. The first whiff of it was oddly sweet, like an alien rose or an exotic hair treatment from India. The welcoming scent took her back to Glen, standing at the counter of the apothecary as she aimlessly browsed through glass-sealed cabinets and shelves full of vials and soft powders. She had picked a vial of transparent liquid and put it to her nose, Glen and the apothecary loomed over her later, scolding her for her treacherous curiosity. _Never have the audacity to willingly smell chloroform again_ , the apothecary told her with a frown.

She immediately stopped her breathing and wriggled against the bulky figure behind her, fingers going to pull at the folded fabric against her face. They were three men, dressed in yellow and green and wearing bowler hats. One was behind her, administrating the doze with a napkin while a hand wrapped tightly around her neck, almost choking her. The other two struggled to hold her by the arms and stop them from flailing. She wanted to scream or to whip her head back until it collided with the man's nose, but every part of her felt restricted. Oxygen was slowly draining out of her body, but she refused to stop fighting. She stomped her boot down on the foot of her kidnapper. But the motion barely did a thing to his rigid form.

The trio pulled her towards the shade of the wall, lifting her lithe build as if she was a small container of flour.

She knew it, she knew this would happen. She flaunted her fortune at the pub and some poverty-stricken workers followed her until nobody was around to save her. Maybelle was certain she lost her stalkers when she crossed the road and stood by the factory. But there they were, attempting to drug her so they could steal her money and clothes, and toss her at some abandoned place that stank of sewage and disease. The final sliver of oxygen she had ran out, and her mouth opened despite her attempts to keep it closed. She wheezed in the pungent but silky material. And slowly but surely, the cobblestone she was looking at began to blur and lose its shape, as if someone washed the ink away from a still-drying sheet. The loud buzz of London began to diminish from her awareness. Her arms stopped straining to escape the hold of the two men in front of her, and before she knew it, her body gave out.


	7. Chapter 7

It felt probable that Victoria wasn't on the throne anymore when Maybelle opened her eyes. How long has she been out? That was the first question that deliberately buzzed around in her head like an annoying fly.

Next, where the hell was she? The blur faded and the stifling insides of a middle-class building appeared to her. She was in a room which had the sole theme of the color cream. The cracked walls were cream and smudged with the occasional grime. A cream-painted wooden desk was on her right, filled scantily with a few maps and letters, as well as an inkpot but no pens. And it was dark, dark enough that her eyes hurt when she noticed the roaring fireplace to her left. At least they had the decency to keep her warm, she thought.

But their kindness stopped there. She finally realized she was strapped to a chair. Ropes encircled her torso and secured her to the rickety wood. Her clothing was still on her. She furrowed her brows and stirred as much as the ropes could allow her, and found the familiar pressure of coins against her ribs. She stared at the fireplace, her mind producing nothing to reassure her about the men's intentions.

"Good, I was starting to get bored and leave for a pint or two." A male voice drawled sleepily, the source was someone inside the room.

She bristled, feeling every hair on her body stand. Her eyes darted, searching for the man until she became dizzy, and she looked at so many points in the room that her neck began to ache. The drug they gave her was so overpoweringly strong it left her hallucinating. She blinked against the fire and tried to flee from her bonds.

"Don't worry, I told them to wind it thirty two times. I counted." The voice went again, and a figure jumped down from the desk, knocking a few papers over the edge.

She stared at the man, wide eyed. She pressed herself to the chair's splat. The fire illuminated the man's features and she found herself staring at her greatest nightmare. He tricked her, again. Fading out of her vision when he was in plain sight.

The phantom with the green eyes looked down at her, a smile lifting his cheeks. He tilted his head when he noticed her horrified glare, and walked forward. She instantly tried to escape, arms that were strapped to her sides wiggling up and down, pointlessly hoping to cut through the scratchy material of the rope. She squirmed around until the chair suddenly fell to the side. She sensed the tumble radiate painfully through the chair and towards her aching muscles. Her legs hung downward towards the ground, so did her neck.

The man came to her and lifted the chair to its original posture as if it was vacant. His green eyes bore into hers as he stood numbingly-close to her. Her knees touched his legs.

He crossed his arms, "Are you done with your attempts? You're not going anywhere until I say so." The bored look stayed etched on his face.

"Where am I?" Maybelle asked him, her eyes filling with alarm as she sank away from his towering form."

"A more common question would be—who are you." He pursed his lips, "Intelligent people fear other people, not places."

"No, I already know who you are." She blurted before she could stop. But he must've already known that bit of information already, or else he wouldn't have captured her.

"Indeed," He moved to the desk and plucked a folded piece of paper. He opened it and pressed the contents to her face. She breathed in coal dust and coughed, "I suppose you know what this is." He added with a snicker.

"You make it hard to recognize when you force it against my face like this." Her muffled voice went.

"It's an illustration of me," He said, pulling it away. He glanced at it and lifted a brow, "The detail is frightening. Who made this?"

"I'm not telling you," He will never dream of knowing about Jennie.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," He refolded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. He leaned over Maybelle with a hand over the chair's ear, "What matters is the reason they did it. Why were you looking for me?" The coldness of his voice caused a chill to run down her spine.

Nonetheless, her boldness was fueled by the memory of the corpses that were two weeks old in another life, "You killed my friends, you bastard! Four guards that were stationed at the Willis Estate. Four guards that were doing their job!"

"Their _job_ is to kill people like me. I can't possibly allow someone to earn pounds after they put a sword through my gullet." He moved away from the chair and walked to the fireplace. He warmed his fingers over the fire, waiting for her to speak with a peaked brow. He suspected a tantrum from her, and she was going to give him exactly that.

"You meater! You cower in the shadows then jump behind people to kill them! The guards had their throats slit, someone only capable of complete and utter disregard of noble fighting could do that, which leaves no one but you to blame in all of London!" She exclaimed at the top of her lungs, feeling her throat begin to itch.

He put a hand over his chest, "Oh, you wound me. In all of London? Are there no cowards out there, everywhere?"

"Yes, but you're the hub of cowardice. Meaters come from all over the country to worship by your shrine, seeing you is a coward's pilgrimage, mutt."

He laughed humorously, then moved away from the fire. He stood in the middle of the room, glaring at her with eyes that seemed to glow.

"You know what else? You attempted to kill me!"

He rolled his eyes, "That doesn't count, I spared your life. You should thank me."

"Thank you?! You stole something from the estate and Lord Willis blamed it on me for weeks!"

He scratched his ear nosily, "Uh, I can hear you very well. You don't need to shout."

"I will shout whenever I want to!" She cried, earning a grimace from him.

"Then shout, but you're not getting anything you want. Be it revenge or the plans your Lord told you to retrieve."

She paused, dumbfounded, "What? You think I'm here to take them back to the man?!" She burst out laughing, her head leaning back until the sound echoed in the unfilled room, "If he somehow gets his fingers on them, I'll shoot them off one by one."

The man's eyebrows knitted and his lips pursed in thought, "You mean you're not working for him?"

"No, not after what he did. Not after _everything_ he did." She knew he didn't comprehend the second part of her statement, but it was enough that she did.

He shrugged to himself, "So here I am, thinking that I captured a Templar like I could pick up a kitten off the street…"

"A what?"

He scrutinized her with an impatient look. But after noticing her pout and her genuine gaze upon him, the wrinkles around his eyes softened, "You don't know what a Templar is." He stated to himself, "How could you not know what order you served if you were sporting their uniform?"

Her eyes pictured the crimson coat with the many buckles, "I thought it was the color of the Willis family," When her father was still alive, he used a small banner of the color red and the coat-of-arms in the center to declare his heritage. He kept it hung above his desk in the crammed library of their small house.

"No, it's the color of Templars for centuries and more to come." The man grabbed a chair from the side of his cream desk, and placed it in front of her. He sat down, the ankle of one leg going to rest over the knee of the other.

"What in god's name is a Templar?" She pressed her hands into fists and listened.

The man before her appeared lost, as if he never had to explain it before, "It's… um. _Ugh_ , of all the Templars that I could capture, I got one who doesn't know what she is?"

"I'm right here, you know." She lifted her brows.

"Yes, that's convenient."

"What is-" She exhaled and chewed her lip to stop from snapping at the killer, "Look, I no longer want to know. I care about the definition of a Templar as much as I care about the foot-size of my former governess. Tell me why you stole the plans, now!"

He swung his arm over the back of his chair, "Why would I tell you?"

"Because you owe it to me. You kidnapped me, killed my friends, and almost threw me off a roof. Tell me why before I give you the best slating of your life, I promise you!" She leaned towards him as much as the rope allowed.

He smirked, "Yes, I'll be quite dead when you've finished killing me with your glare."

Oh, how she wanted to let a bullet fly through his smug face. But Stocker made it clear that her weapons will not see the light of day until the next century. She didn't possess enough money to buy a revolver and enough ammunition to wipe this phantom off the planet.

"Tell me why you stole the plans! I don't work for Willis. If I worked for him, I would still be wearing the crimson uniform. And I would still have my weapons with me. And most importantly, I wouldn't be alone."

"You're a spy. Why would spies wear colors that cause a headache as well as a permanent damage to London's freedom?"

The idea was absurd, "Me? A spy? I'm about as silent as a damned policeman chasing a couple of prostitutes in Whitechapel."

He chuckled momentarily, "I don't think you can prove your innocence from being a spy."

"I _am_ a spy, actually. A spy working for myself. I _spied_ on those plans you two are quarreling for, and I want the gauntlet for myself. Lord Willis wouldn't let his most trustful employee learn of the artifact's existence, but I do know of it. Care to explain that?"

Her glared at her, but it was a pitiful attempt at intimidation due to the bland look on his face, "Perhaps he let you know, out of everyone. So you could find me and recover the plans."

"Never, I'm his niece and he never bothered to take a good look at me. He probably doesn't know the color of my eyes. Heck, maybe he doesn't know I'm a woman, that would explain the forced labor." She ignored his startled expression and continued, "Look. Only a select group of people know of Lord Willis' plans, if you identify them, you'll figure that I'm not one of them."

"What's your name?"

She bit her tongue, studying his face and realizing she already memorized it in full detail, "You first."

He rolled his eyes, "I'm the one who has you in shackles. You either let me know, or I'll convince myself that you're a Templar spy."

She swallowed, looking away, "Maybelle. Willis."

He rose sharply, his chair creaking from the movement. He stood by his desk and searched through a pile of papers scribbled with aging black ink. His fingers found a particular one and he raised it against the light. His eyes skimmed over the paper briefly before letting it glide down to the desk.

"Well?" She asked, finding that her heart was racing.

The bored look persisted, "Your name isn't there,"

"See?! I told you!"

"But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you go. As soon as I remove your binds, you will go back to your uncle and tell him all about the little get-together we had. I'd hate to relocate this headquarters, really."

"What headquarters?"

A proud grin spread across his face, "The Rooks headquarters. I'm their leader, so if you attempt to move an inch out of this chair, I'll have you mummified and imprisoned inside a closet in some cellar until the next landowners move in and find a funny smell to the air."

She gulped, closing her eyes to deter her mind from picturing such a fate, "I don't think I'll be able to move."

"That's exactly what we aimed for."

The Rooks. She heard of the gang that wiped another gang off London and introduced a similar era of crime. Nothing was different save for the uniforms. And the phantom haunting her was their leader, what are the odds?

She sighed, wanting to rub the tension out of her face, "Why do you want the gauntlet?"

His brief silence made her open her eyes and gaze up at him, "I want to… sell it."

She snorted, "Really? You'll have an almost god-like power in your hands and you'd throw it away for some pounds."

"Oh, ' _some_ pounds' is a huge understatement." He shook his head.

She scoffed, "You don't look like the type that wants money. If you wanted money, you could've nicked off mine when you also grabbed the illustration."

His speechlessness made her smirk. Got you, she thought.

"You little minx…" He said with clarity, not caring if she heard. He sat back in his chair, "Alright. I want the artifact because I don't want someone such as Lord Willis to have it instead."

"And once you have it, then what?"

"Then I…" He faltered, giving her a cautious glance, "Why do you want to know what happens to it?"

"I told you, I want it for myself. Not to rule the world as Lord Willis intends, but to free myself of a certain fear that I find myself facing more than I would like."

"And that would be…?" He raised his hand and moved it through the air, beckoning her to confess with a smile on his lips.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. He will never let her live this down, if he lets her live at all. She never had to proclaim her fear to anyone before, especially a stranger that tried to kill her, "Heights."

When he stayed still, nothing coming out of his mouth, she almost exhaled in relief. But he soon broke her ego with a delighted laugh that brutally annoyed her as much as it humiliated her.

"Nothing's funny, you prick."

He covered his eyes as he laughed, "You're a sniper that's afraid of heights?" He removed his hand and looked at her seriously, "I'm sorry, but do you notice the irony, or am I the only one?"

She clenched her teeth, "I am well aware of it, thank you very much."

He laughed again, and she wished to able to summon a rifle to plant the barrel into his diaphragm.

When he stopped, he displayed a look only a truly entertained man could give. He didn't take her seriously, and the idea struck her as tremendously infuriating.

"Look. Let me help you. Let me help you find the artifact, I can take it for myself and you'll never hear of it being used in crime or corruption. In fact, you'll never hear of it at all. I'll relocate to some secluded building in the countryside and hunt for hare and badgers. Just let me have it, please."

He let his green eyes give her a once-over, they shined against the fire, "What could you possibly give me that I couldn't get myself?"

"Information, support. That sort of thing. Lord Willis is my uncle. You want to kill him, don't you? Don't you?"

The eager glint in his eyes confirmed it.

"Then I can tell you about him. He treated me like an insect all my life. Thought of me as a bothersome, albeit insignificant thing. But being the fly on the wall made me learn things about him he doesn't know about himself." She tried to stretch her aching muscles, and felt a throbbing ache the tightness of the ropes inflicted. Bruises must have already formed. Angry red, purple and blue.

The man in black watched her movements, "Such as what?"

"When he uses the privy at the corner of the garden, he sometimes plucks a yellow rose from a bush planted especially for the purpose you'd imagine." She remembered watching him through her scope, giggling like a child until her aim wobbled and her finger almost slipped on the trigger.

"What? Are you telling me he uses it for his arse?" He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees.

"There's no other explanation for the shite-covered roses the maids used to find behind the privy. They thought a rose-hating mutt snuck into the garden every other night... until I told them."

He cackled, "Well, your information encompasses his shit schedule. Anything else?"

"Plenty. I know he stashes his daughter away for devil knows what. I gather she isn't the one who deters all these rich and handsome gentlemen away. I mean, why would she?"

The man scratched his stubbled chin, "What's her name?"

"Rosalie Willis."

He nodded in recognition, watching her face, "She's a Templar, one of Lord Willis' minions"

Maybelle gasped, her gaze dropping to her lap. All the little moments she had with Rosalie came back to her. The five years of education with Miss Erin Moran, their governess. They used to look at each other while Miss Moran read from a geography book, and see who giggled first. Whoever did had Erin scold her and threaten to send away her dessert for the maids to devour instead.

She remembered Rosalie's keen blue eyes as they looked at her with an almost-motherly care. Rosalie had stood at the door to Maybelle's quarters with a book in her hand. Charles Dickens, their mutual favorite. Stocker later stripped her of any and all literature once her uncle decided to halt her education. Her only means of entertainment between shifts was practicing new ways to aim a rifle.

She couldn't believe that Rosalie, the classic English beauty who was innocent and educated and kind, could be a part of something as foul as her uncle's plans. But yet, it made sense. Rosalie was his daughter, and his wife was 'unable' to stop Rosalie from undertaking the path Lord Willis did.

"I'm sorry. It seems you have a good relationship with the wretched thing." The man said.

"She's… she's not wretched." Maybelle said firmly.

"Are you joking? She killed about a dozen rooks when we located and chased her across Westminster."

"What? No! She wouldn't harm a rat even if it gave her the plague. She can't kill."

"Yes, and I can't kill either." He crossed his arms, "Just because someone keeps up an illusion doesn't mean it can't be probed to reveal the truth. I could pose as a random business owner and apply arsenic to my shop's doorknob. No one would suspect a thing, until someone _finally_ does."

No, she refused to believe Rosalie had anything to do with this, "No, you're wrong."

He sighed, rising from his seat. He grabbed a paper off the desk and showed it to Maybelle.

"Those are the names Hayward repeatedly mentioned. Read what it says. You can read, can't you?"

She glared at him before she began to read the elegant writing on the paper. A wall of text containing lots of the words _secret_ and _Order_ , and a list of names. Most notably Lord Willis and Lady Rosalie Willis.

"Do you still think your cousin is a little angel? She is one of the grandmaster's Templars."  
He folded the paper endlessly and hurled it to the desk, it became lost within the pile. "And more importantly for you—she's apparently part of Lord Willis' little team that will do some treasure hunting. Keep that in mind, won't you?"

She looked up at the man, feeling detached, a destroyed look dimming her eyes, "What is your name?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, but the corner of his lips lifted, "Jacob Frye is the name. But you can call me anything you like."

"Right you are. So, I can call you a galloping twat?" She smirked.

"A nickname should be creative, Maybelle."

"And what's mine, then?"

He put a finger on his pursed lips, "Yours is Kitten—you climb up a tree and could never climb down on your own. Plus, they told me it was a breeze to carry you. Leaner than a broomstick, they said."

"That's hilarious." She deadpanned.

"Alright, Kitten. You're telling me you can help with Lord Willis, but what do you want in return?"

"Freedom." She made it a point to squirm against the ropes.

"You'll get out of this chair, but I'm afraid I'll be keeping an eye on you. What else do you want?"

"You said you didn't need the artifact, so once we find it, it's mine." She offered, watching his expression.

He uncrossed his arms and exhaled, a crease beginning to form between his brows, "Very well."

"Really? I can have it?" She had to make sure she heard right. After all, she didn't expect anyone to give up a timeless, priceless artifact for some info that might be found elsewhere—with a lot of work.

He made a tiny, hesitant nod, but it was enough for her.

"Right. Now get me out of this."

He moved his hand towards her lap, then held it over the end of her bindings at her waist. With a flick of his wrist, a blade emerged from a metal gauntlet. She could only blink as the blade tore through the ropes as if they were made of silk. Jacob pulled the tangle away from her body, letting it drop to the ground. She rose and kicked away a stubborn cord that coiled itself around her foot.

She moved to the fireplace, warming her gloves and sighing contentedly. And without warning, she moved back to Jacob and kneed him right below his belt. She stood still and watched him with a pleased smile as he doubled over in utter pain.

"This is for killing my mates, Mr. Frye."


	8. Chapter 8

Her body had purple and blue lines that weaved around her torso, it will take weeks and weeks before her body healed them and made the colors gradually disintegrate. But she didn't mind. What mattered most to her was being alive—and she was. Her soul remained within her body, and a blissful awareness after a dusty, drug-induced haze allowed her to accompany Jacob as he showed her around the headquarters. He began the tour at the outer ranges of the hideout.

The whole hideout was surrounded by a wall which snipers lined. As she put a hand along her forehead and stared up through the little aura of a gloomy sun, she began to recall what a rifle felt like in her hands. The next time she holds one might be a horrible occurrence, because her bewildered mind might realize she no longer possesses the knowledge nor the skill to use a rifle. The thought made her sick to the stomach.

Next was the building where most casual activities took place. It was just as she would expect a gang's sanctuary to look and feel like—there were men and women of all heights, weights, and even races inhabiting the large main room. Conversing in boisterous voices or drinking their fill at the bar. The room stank of sweat, smuggled drink, and the prospect of entertainment. It was a more vulgar version of the guard quarters back at the Willis Estate. She had to admit it had its charm.

The story above it was there for planning purposes, as well as a couple rooms that were for interrogations and prisoners. She had the displeasure of being upstairs, but at least it was inside a plotting room which was devoid of precious information at that moment. The other buildings were a mess hall and small quarters for those too poor to afford their own houses out in the city.

Once he finished the tour, Jacob stood with Maybelle at the headquarters' entrance.

"So," She began, which made a frown appear on Jacob's lips, "What business are you in?

He tried to examine the ground for bumps that could trip his men, "I act as the leader of the syndicate you keep hearing about in newspapers and word-of-mouth, that is, I pretend to give consultation as borough leaders run their territories and keep my pockets and head full of trouble."

Her brow raised, "I meant, what criminal activities do you practice?"

He looked at her, then smiled, "Me? Nothing, I'm innocent."

"Jacob."

"Fine. We smuggle firearms, drugs, alcohol. We have those who specialize in black market. We do protection and extortion rackets. We rob shops and carriages, pickpocket on slow days, sometimes offer hitman and intimidation services… if the pay is good enough. We have men who launder the money as well as men to distribute it fairly. We have scouts who spend most of their time trespassing. We have people who watch the market. And people posing as shop employees who get to lift hefty merchandise almost undetected."

"You… don't have any masseurs?"

He shrugged, "Not everywhere. But anyway, want to talk business? Need a service?"

"No, thanks. I'm good."

Hands about his hips. He eyed her through narrowed eyes and puckered lips.

She shrugged, moving away from him and closer to the thick stone walls that enclosed the premise. The sleeve of her black coat was swathed in white powder, "What? Why are you looking at me like that? It's my decision."

He exhaled, "I'm wondering where to keep you. I won't let you get out of my sights, not even for an hour."

She glared at him then, but her overall state-of-mind was despondent, she tired, "You make me feel like a puppy who hasn't weaned yet."

"No, you're something a lot more importa-"

She cut him off and placed a hand on her chest in mock thankfulness, "You… you think so? I didn't know you cared, Frye."

He rolled his eyes, "If I move my eyes from you, you might run to your uncle and tell him everything about his hunters."

"We got our differences—I was never grateful for the few things he has given me, nor his unprecedented interest in working my fingers to the bone. I won't go back to him."

"Yes… I take your _unprecedented_ word." He deadpanned.

She raised her finger and pointed to the wall where the snipers stood, her expression horrified, "Oh my word, look! She's going to fall!"

Out of sheer instinct and fear for the gang's members, Jacob took the bait and followed her finger. The woman was fine—eyes searching the horizon through the haze of the factories. But once Jacob looked back at Maybelle, she was already sprinting through the small crowd that walked the pavement, a laugh coming out of her lips in rhythm to her strides. Jacob ran after her, his eyes sullen. He dodged a couple of grumbling folks and quickly caught up. He seized her by the collar. She choked.

"Try to run like so again, and I swear you'll need a chaperone for the rest of your life. Even to the privy, kitten." He whispered grimly in her ear as his grasp tightened.

"Hey! Easy on the coat, it has been pressed not two days ago!" She stepped forward, trying to release herself, but to no avail.

"Don't play smart, or I'll render you the complete opposite, Maybelle. Do you hear me?"

She sighed, "I was joking. Now let me go."

He paused for a moment before complying. She turned to him with a pout. She noticed their heights weren't so different and she could look at him squarely in the eye with little to no struggle, "You honestly think I have some sort of death wish? If I wanted to die, I could just drown myself in the Thames or eat some of those dreadful pickled oysters they sell in Whitechapel."

"I would be more worried about not provoking me, May."

She crossed her arms and grinned cheekily, "Why, what happens if I do that?"

"You best not know."

She giggled, "Ooo, scary."

He shook his head exasperatedly, "Forget it, you're coming to my flat. It will be your home until we finish our deal and go our bloody separate ways."

"You have a flat?" She asked with genuine surprise, "I thought you lived among your gang members. Or, you know, in a brothel."

He ignored the latter comment, "Sometimes I do stay at headquarters, but I mostly like to think alone, in my study. Besides, I don't want my men to be on edge, trying to prove themselves to the boss."

Sensible, Maybelle thought. At least he cares about the his people's comfort, unlike her uncle and his collection of slaves that cater to his every need. But his flat? She didn't fancy being close to Jacob for more than what was absolutely necessary—his presence still somewhat reminded her of the night when her greatest fears towered over her like a predator. And now Jacob made the decision of keeping her as close as possible. Her opinions about the man's unwanted decision will be most certainly unheard.

"Where in the world is your flat, dare I ask?"

"Whitechapel." He answered, looking over his shoulder at the passing folks, "You could have some pickled oysters for dinner, once we're there…"

Her eyes became wide, "Serious? Who would rent a flat in that horrible place?"

He smiled with absolute hostility, his eyes wrinkled with disdain, "Oh, I'm sorry. Right Honorable. My lodgings don't reside in fashionable districts as yours does."

Her eye twitched, "I'm not a Viscountess, Frye. And secondly, I never felt like I occupied a swanky district. It felt as if I'm in a vacuum." And it was true. All she did was watch over the estate and wish she could roam about Hyde Park without the excuse of accompanying Rosalie strictly as a vigilant protector.

"Whatever. On to Whitechapel." He raised an arm and waved to a series of hansom cabs that crossed Southwark, pulled by herds of exhausted horses. Two minutes later, they were on their way to Jacob's flat.

* * *

Whitechapel was synonyms with misery. If Southwark was teeming with poverty and soot-covered faces, then Whitechapel was a whole other version of misfortune. Here, brothels and crime was the usual area of expertise for men and women. Between every brothel was a robbery, draining the pockets of decent, law-abiding folk. Those who didn't partake in such misdemeanors were condemned to death by starvation or disease, or worse, the workhouse. The smell was horrible, sewage, burned newspaper, scrap wood, and clothes for warmth. Everywhere she looked she saw crying babes in the arms of shivering women, barefoot children picking pieces of rotten food off the ground, people ill with contagious, grim diseases. Maybelle averted her gaze.

The hansom passed through Berner Street, then continued through Fairclough. When the horse trotted at Grove Street, Jacob knocked at the carriage's ceiling.

"Here?" Maybelle asked as she stared out the window at the small church nestled against the road.

"No, we're making a quick stop to buy some matches and pickled eel." It was a few moments before Maybelle realized he was jesting. She held her tongue.

Jacob exited and carriage and left the door open for her. He didn't help her down, not that she expected or needed the pretentious courtesy. She climbed down and smoothed her wrinkled coat with her sweaty palms. She calmly shut the door.

Jacob paid the hansom and marched towards one of the close-knit buildings along the road. She followed close at his heels, watching as the faint wind stirred wisps of his dark hair. He stopped at a building with an open doorway and looked at her, checking if she escaped like water through one's fingers. When he felt reassured rather than deterred by her condescending gaze, he wandered in and began ascending a tight staircase.

At the top, he fished a key and unlocked the door, "I'm warning you, it may not look like much. Especially to your Mayfair-bred mind."

Inside, the soft hue of green wallpaper and the smell of aging oak welcomed her. She walked in.

She put her hands on her hips, taking in the place with a critical eye. It was simple—which was what she expected of Whitechapel's buildings. A sofa was placed right in front of the door, as if the residents needed comfort as soon as they entered the tiny lodgings. A brimming desk was to her immediate left, filled with rolls of paper, old letters, and maps of London, the Kingdom, and the World. It reminded her of Lord Willis' desk, but the difference between the two offices that belonged to extremely different men, was the impeccable tidiness of Jacob's. The orderliness made her wonder if Jacob made any progress at all prior to the theft of the plans.

She made a bee-line towards the sofa and let her self fall on the pillows and blanket Jacob had placed prior to her visit. It was almost two in the afternoon, and she wanted nothing more than a cup of tea. And a long, dreamless slumber. She spread herself on the cushions and put her filthy boots up on the arm rest. Jacob didn't object. Or maybe he did and she was too tired to hear him.

Instead, he headed behind the wall and as Maybelle heard, began to start a fire. She turned and stared at the rug beneath the sofa.

"So, tell me," Maybelle said, her voice muffled by the mountain of pillows, "Why did you choose green wallpaper?"

"Why not?" Said Jacob as he stoked the fire.

"Ever heard of Arsenic? Viscountess Willis collapsed fifteen years ago, at a ball, when she was donning her extravagantly-jeweled green dress. Arsenic poisoning was the cause of death. My poor old uncle was stricken with grief for over a decade."

"Sounds like he loved her." He peered from the corner, fingers covered in soot. He wiped them on a grey rag.

She scoffed, "He treasured her. I suppose he began to fear death right after his wife had fallen a victim of it, because he put me on the roof some five years after she was buried."

"And nobody berated him for the decision?" He said, making his way to his desk and extracting the familiar plans from his pocket.

"No. Nobody of the peerage knew I existed. He never officially adopted me, I'm still Ashton Willis' daughter. I won't receive any of the old dog's fortune when he finally drops dead—unless by some godly miracle he begins to hate his own daughter and love the niece he enslaved."

"And what exactly is your skill-set?"

"Rifling. A bit of stabbing. Not very good at swordplay, but I can possibly escape from a certain death if my rifle wasn't in my possession." She pointedly glared at him from her relaxed position.

A smile gradually appeared on his face, "Fine. I'm sorry for… almost killing you. But I still think you should be grateful for my mercy." He put his nose in the air and haughtily stared down at her. He was expecting her to go absolutely nuts, she didn't give him the satisfaction.

Her words were even and calm, "I would have been immensely more grateful if you had spared my mates as well. They were a part of me, a part of my life."

He groaned, "Please don't bring this up again. I was doing my job. There's nothing personal in my line of work—unless you wear scarlet."

"Your job is to kill people who had families and led lives? What a prick."

He sighed, "Hungry?"

"Famished." She avoided looking at him.

He ended up calling her to feast on some baked potatoes and surprisingly good cheese. She didn't mind the lack of variety if it meant finally putting something in her stomach.

They sat at the minuscule table that was very obviously meant for one person. He had dragged a chair from another desk laid beside the fireplace (which also doubled as a meal preparation table) for her. And they sat by the window and gobbled down the bland dinner and washed it down with beverages. He chose beer, as anyone would. But she chose a cup of tea instead. He avoided questioning her, much to her relief.

"So, I've told you a bit about myself. What about you? What's your story?" She said through a mouthful of potato.

He barely looked away from his food, "I fail to see how my story is any of your business."

"Come on!" She waved her utensils around, "We're business partners, now. We need to know about each other."

He put his fork down, but his grip tightened on the steel grip of his reasonably sharp knife, "No. We're _not_ partners. We're nothing more than two fugitives looking for something. And to me, you're nothing but a source of valid information."

His glare made her look away from him and out the window. She observed the few passing carriages and a frail woman sitting with her legs crossed on the pavement, who begged equally poor passer-by for alms. She wanted to hit him, "Why the aggression, Frye?"

"I would ask the same of you." He took a big gulp of beer.

"Me?!" She spat dramatically, "I'm not the one who keeps glaring at you like horse shit that stuck to the bottom of my favorite boots."

He mustered a small smile, but it was malicious, "Your progress to understand our situation seems to be moving at a snail's pace. We are not partners, nor friends. As a matter of fact, we are enemies that have a mutual goal. Aggression is a necessity in our kind of association." He continued eating as if nothing was said.

Maybelle dropped her utensils, her appetite fading with every poison-laced word that spewed out of Jacob's idiotic mouth, "What exactly is your problem, Jacob?"

He stabbed at a small piece of potato on his plate, one of many that he created by his persistent poking at his food, "I have no problems. All is well."

Maybelle wasn't convinced, and she was sure Jacob didn't convince himself either. But she didn't push it.

"Thank you for making dinner, but I'm not hungry anymore." She left her plate that still contained half a potato and two slices of cheese.

"You can sleep on the sofa. But if you touch anything, I'll have your hand cut off overnight and you'll find it on your plate come morning. Would you like it slathered in sauce, or submerged in stock?" He said blandly, leaving his plate alone and drowning himself in beer.

Maybelle spread herself on the sofa as Jacob cleared both their plates and rearranged the coals to leave a small burn going through the rest of the night. He departed to a corner in the flat which contained his large, thick bed. At least three mattresses piled on top of the bed frame. Maybelle heard him toss and turn as she experienced her own brand of worry-induced insomnia. But neither of them rose from the warmth and comfort to berate each other until they were tired enough to sleep.

Maybelle found herself wondering, for the hundredth time this week, if her plan to look for the sought-after treasure was a good choice. Her indecisiveness made her bones ache. If she hadn't considered going after the myth, Jacob would've probably slaughtered her alongside her uncle using his gang and his abnormal ghost-like tactics. She had to ask him about it next time she found herself stomaching his presence. With that thought, she felt herself fading out.

* * *

 **Review and tell me what you think, don't be shy! I'd love to read your comments.**


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning was just as bland as the ones she spent at the Morvell's. Jacob dragged her out of his flat and into the murky bowels of Whitechapel to visit the grocer and the launderer. She had to carry the man's foodstuffs as he clutched a bag of cloth containing muddied outfits and breeches he fished from the back of his closet. Once they were back at the flat, he sat at his desk and broodingly tried to decipher the papers he stole from Lord Willis while she sat on the sofa, filling her belly with Pontefract cakes she bought with her leftover money courtesy of Leander. She wondered what the family was up to, and if they missed the most recent of their human leeches.

"Do you go out on the town, Frye? Or do you just scowl at your desk all day?" She asked, swirling the liquorice around her mouth with her tongue.

"No, I scowl at my larder when I find I've run out of beer, as well." He said, never looking up.

"Very funny, you should perform on the stage. I would give my last penny to watch you." She shoved her hand inside the bag of confessionary and searched for another piece.

He sighed, "I sometimes take a walk through the streets. Parks are too much trouble for me, and only the most prosperous stroll there. Imagine if they found me hanging about." He scoffed and put down the paper, he picked up a larger one and began to skim through it.

"Well, I can confirm what you're saying about the prosperous. Those shit-bags take the whole morning trying to fit into a corset just to take a ten-minute stroll. Imagine being one of their maids." She feigned a shudder.

He chuckled, reaching for a pencil and checking its sharpness as if he wanted to stab something with it, "At least we're part of the same class, you and I. Now that I think of it."

She found that somewhat insulting, "No, I'm not a criminal. But I see what you mean. I used to live in Mayfair, but that meant nothing because I lived in everlasting servitude."

He grunted in response, and began scrawling onto an open journal. She listened to the sound of scribbling for a while, appreciating the hushed atmosphere that was infinitely rare in the estate. Even at midnight, there were employees going about their night shifts. Never was a silent moment in Willis' hell.

"What have you learned about Willis, anyway?" She asked, putting the candy aside.

"He assembled a team of five to find the Gauntlet of Eden. His order might have gathered a lot about the artifact itself, but nothing about its actual location."

"Great. So where do we start looking?"

He tutted, "We're not looking for anything until we eliminate the five members."

"Why?"

"Because their order would track us down if we ever find the vault and enter it. It will make things a great deal harder than it already is. Trust me, I'm speaking out of experience, here." He explained and scribbled some more.

"So, you want to kill them, then?" Just as he killed the guards, she added in her mind, "Who are they, anyway?"

"Well," He put down his pencil and the large paper, and picked up a smaller one that was once infinitely folded into a thumbnail-length square, "I've gathered the names and compiled them into a list. Firstly, your uncle, Hayward Willis. He's the apparent leader of the order, the Grandmaster… I can't believe I let them sprout back up…"

"What are you talking about?" She stood and moved beside him.

"Nothing. Next on the list is a man called Blake Dixon, heard of him?" He turned his gaze towards her.

She raked her mind for the name, "No, not really."

"I think he would be the Grandmaster's right-hand-man, since his name came up more than once. But then again, we can't depend on anything. But if he truly is what I suspect, then we'd find him close to Willis' side."

"Then we cross him off the list until we eliminate the rest?" She asked, peering over at the small, thin paper.

"Maybe… but it would be the best course of action."

She read the next name, "Remy Cain, I think I know this bloke. He was always present at Willis' banquets."

Jacob's watchful eyes snapped to hers, "What do you know about him?"

"Irrelevant pieces. He's thin despite eating tons of food at banquets. He has two sons. One is barely out of his childhood, and the other is in his twenties. I think he married twice. And he's somewhere in his mid-forties. He probably lives in Mayfair, since he seems so keen on visiting my uncle and indulging in his aimless festivities. Arrives about ten minutes after the designated time, and I think basic etiquette says to arrive at fifteen instead."

Jacob shook his head, his brows snapping together, "Irrelevant indeed. Nothing tells me about what he is in essence."

She bit her lip, "It's not as if I mingle directly with those people, I barely see them entering and exiting the estate from my place on the roof. I've never clearly seen most of their faces, I don't think they'd appreciate a scope pointed their way. What I know is based on gossip from maids and gardeners."

"No matter, I'll trace the bastard even if he lives in the north pole." He vowed and scratched at his chin, "Ellis Cervantes, ring a bell?"

"Yes, he lives somewhere in The Strand. He's a rather good chemist. But I'm not sure if he has apothecaries or labs. People say he's into illicit behaviours…"

"What sort of behaviours?" Jacob raised his brow and gave her an amused grin.

"There's also a rumour about him murdering two girls his wife invited for tea. But no one found any trace of what he's done, so they can't blame it on him. He has an alibi—two of his acquaintances said he was with them at another man's property when his wife hosted the party. Not that anyone would dare sue such a fellow if they found proof of his wrongdoings…"

"We'll put his money and class aside. Why would they fear him that much?"

She raised her brows and looked towards the lantern placed on the corner, there was a tiny moth hovering, circling around it, "I don't know, people are sure they would be killed overnight if they dared utter his name to the authorities."

"We'll need the help of my boys to take care of this one," He looked over to the paper, "So, Rosalie Willis?"

Maybelle sniffled, "Stop mentioning her, she was my friend!" She snapped, "Not Rosalie, she has nothing to do with this." She shook her head, denying it to herself. Rosalie wasn't a member of Lord Willis' little team of treasure hunters. For goodness' sake, she couldn't lift a revolver to save her own life.

"We've been through this. I'm sorry, May. She might've been your friend, but she's a Templar. She's a threat to our plan. She killed some of my men." Jacob said, placing his hand on Maybelle's shoulder. She recoiled.

"No. Maybe she's some sort of cover-up for the real member. She can't be a part of this! She doesn't know how to fend for herself," Maybelle slapped the paper down, "She dragged me alongside her through everything. When she headed into the garden every morning, she asked me to accompany her if I had the day's watch! The girl is scared of her own shadow, Jacob!"

"Did you see her in the banquet, with the guests?" He asked her, looking at her seriously.

She glared at him, her teeth grinding, "Probably? I don't know, I…" Then she remembered, the womanly voice behind the locked office door that almost seemed familiar. But it was ages since Rosalie uttered a word in her presence. She was a flower waiting for a husband. She smelled and looked and acted like one. One day, Jacob or Maybelle have to face Rosalie and kill her. The notion made Maybelle's face turn paler than it already is.

"If you hadn't seen her, then she was probably with the rest of the Templars. Did she wear anything that alluded to her identity?" He asked with a light voice, careful not to provoke the woman before him.

"Like… like what?"

"Most commonly, the color red. Or a cross emblem, Cross pattée rather than the Latin version, possibly on the shoulder, or as a ring perhaps? I've seen that sort before."

"Well, how about a necklace?" She recalled Rosalie's jeweled cross that never left her neck despite the overwhelming choices of pearls and gems she had stored away, "Yes, she wears an oddly-shaped cross. It's colorless, though."

Jacob nodded at her with an approving look, "Exactly what we're looking for."

"But she… she's just an ordinary, commonplace prosperous woman. All she cares about is corsets and tea parties." She shrugged. It was a bit degrading to Rosalie's hidden intelligence, but it was the woman in a nutshell.

"Things are not what they seem, and as every rule goes, a person is a sterling example of any saying. I learned this years ago." His eyes had a faraway look to them, "People may appear trustful. They might appear as the pinnacle of loyalty and perfection. Then suddenly, you realize they weren't what you thought they were."

He seemed to be speaking at her, not to her. As if he was recalling something from his past. She quickly realized he was not giving _her_ advice—he was rather giving his former self an advice.

"You're saying that she trains behind my back? That every time she made me watch over her was only for show? And to think I could've spent those mornings having tea by the fire..."

Jacob pursed his lips, "Would you be able to face her, when the time comes? I would rather do it by myself if you can't bring yourself to harm her."

She sighed heavily and leaned over the desk, hands covering her face, "I guess so," She spoke through her fingers, "If it meant I'm one step closer to what I want, I'll do it."

"Really? You'd throw your friendship away for the artifact?" His tone was curious, but was laced with caution.

"Are you worried I'd turn on you as well? Don't worry. I'm easily crippled by heights, and you seem to have a good grip on that." She stood rigidly, "Speaking of which, how in the world did you climb the entire three storeys of the mansion in a few seconds?"

His gaze momentarily flitted to his arm, but he recovered and held her gaze, "That's a story for another day. For now, go to bed. We need to track down our first man."

"In what order are we attacking them?"

"Whoever we find first, we kill. Be it Hayward or his daughter or their expendable underlings." He neatly folded the paper and placed it atop the others. He took his time to keep everything in its proper place as if he was a minister's secretary.

Maybelle found her resolute demeanour melt away at the notion of tomorrow, "Do we have to kill them? There's truly no other way?"

He looked away from his desk, "Of course. If we don't kill them, they'll chase us wherever we go. More importantly—they'd stop at nothing to find these plans and put them to good use."

As Jacob continued fussing about the organization of his desk, his movements pushed aside a couple of books to reveal a golden, shimmering tablet beneath them. She studied the intricate metal that was carved with innate scribblings. She reached for the tablet and pulled it from under the books.

"Don't touch that. I hid it there for a reason." He slapped her wrist, but she clutched the tablet tightly.

"This is the tablet my uncle spoke of, the one you stole. What is its significance?" She held it in front of her and ran her finger along the etchings. The odd language was gibberish to her eyes. And as far as she was concerned—they weren't going to decipher the tablet anytime soon. Unless Jacob had a linguist who awaited his orders, which she highly doubted.

"This might be helpful, when we arrive at the actual vault, that is. I bet it's a key of some sort. Or instructions to open a chest, or something." He grabbed the tablet from her hands and put it back under the cover of the books, "It's mentioned somewhere in the plans, but the order doesn't know its actual usage."

"Maybe it's a map?" She offered, then itched a sudden tingle in her neck.

"If it was a map, then the gauntlet will remain in the vault for the end of time. I don't think I've come across a language like this. Maybe once or twice, but I… haven't had the chance to look at the markings."

"I'd say you're being a pessimist, but I agree. Trying to read it is pointless." She brushed by him and made her way to her beloved sofa. She plopped down and felt herself sinking into the cushions. Jacob's flat might be small, but the furniture was exceedingly luxuriant.

"I'm going to make some dinner. Be sure to get enough sleep, we have places to go tomorrow." He went to the door and made sure it was securely locked. Instead of strengthening, his trust in her appeared to be diminishing by the hour. But she understood his caution, no matter how much it annoyed her.

* * *

Jacob cooked pheasant and a side of vegetables she seldom had. Vegetables were not the most common dish Mayfair's residents had. They were hard to digest and often flavorless. But somehow, Jacob's boiled watercress was delicious. It was rich with a thick, sour sauce. And was topped with walnuts and a pinch of salt. She briefly wondered if he was always good at cooking, but the question faded as she took the first bite.

After helping him clean up, Maybelle browsed the small library while Jacob undressed and relaxed in his bed. She heard his soft but steady breathing some thirty minutes after. The flat still smelled of cooked food and coal, so she put down her book and opened the window. The night's air was crisp, a light wind began to blow inside, against her face, through her hair, cooling the tiles below her. It has been two days since it last rained—summer was slowly arriving. The sun's height Maybelle craved but also found annoying was imminent. Nonetheless, it might appear for a few days until it disappears behind the smog again.

She shivered, drawing her blanket closer to her body. She peered outside at a man who stood with a scantily dressed woman, obviously haggling and attempting to ignore her begging touches on his arm. Her neck and chest was showing and her arms were devoid of the warm cover of a shawl. The sight of them so dangerously close to the church made her chuckle.

She moved away from the window and settled back into her sofa. The book she picked was a thick romance she thought she'd seen before. She read a few lines before she felt her attention fading. It's been a while since she last read something. Sighing, she tossed the book on a pillow and stood. She explored the small flat with her eyes. Large enough to accommodate a maximum of two people, but certainly did not fit any guests Jacob might have over for dinner. She idly walked barefoot, standing momentarily by the whisper of a fire Jacob always kept burning through the evenings. Above the fireplace was a shelf of various decorations and a small, dull metal box of what she guessed was ammunition.

A golden statue of some sort caught her eye—an almost genderless figure that stood with palms pointing forwards. A long necklace of pearls dropped from its neck and almost touched its feet. Behind it was a frame of barbs. She'd seen one of these in an opium den. It was possibly an Indian character.

She took the statue in her hands and turned it over. On the base was a carving made into the painted gold, the handwriting sharp but irresolute, as if it was made with an unskilled hand or an awkwardly held blade. It might have been an insult to the goddess to ruin her statue, which is why a professional carver stopped himself from partaking in such an act. The message read—' _Kali the Destroyer. For you, brother. –Evie'._

Jacob has a sister? The knowledge made the man a bit more human in Maybelle's eyes. He still struck her as a ghost as well as a murderer. The fact that he was a part of a family gave Maybelle the chance to reconsider a few things she thought about him. Be it the various insults she wanted to hurl at him at the right time, or her assumptions about his personality as a whole.

She put the statue back in its rightful place and looked for more memorabilia. Her eyes found the second desk in Jacob's flat, which he used for any operation but writing or studying. A few sauce stains spread on a corner from that night's cooking preparations. Some books sat atop the makeshift table. She moved to them and read the cover of the first one, Dr. Chase's Recipes. She stifled a giggle. So, this is how Jacob knew how to put together meals better than Willis' personal cooks.

Below the table, a wooden box was placed close to the wall. Almost obscure and well-hidden from those who weren't looking for it. She bent down and dragged the box out. It made a hushed scraping noise. Maybelle held her breath and listened for Jacob's stirring. But it never came.

The box was filled with some sort of blades. The handle was brass, it held together two knives that thinned the further they extended. She picked one up and tested the weight in her hand, twisting her wrist and peering down the length of the blade towards the sharp prick. The whole design reminded her of silver meat forks her uncle often had the maids place at the table before banquets. She bit her lip and touched the tip of one blade, her finger slipped and she watched as blood dripped down her finger. She wanted to sooth her cut with her mouth, but her vision suddenly blurred. She dropped the blade, but never heard its clank as it hit the wood.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to get her vision to readjust. And when it did, she wished it hadn't.

She was standing at the pinnacle of a building. One foot held her suspended on the spike of a tower. And the pain of the sharp edge cutting through her bare foot was so brutally real, so bitter, that she began screaming and trying to get her foot out of her impalement. But if she succeeded, she would have nowhere to stand, and she would fall into the abyss below that began to dim until it was nothing but infinite darkness. She bent down and clawed at her ankle, her other foot attempting to find footing against the thick spike as her flesh sank further and further onto the metal.

The pain was unbearable. She felt tears stream down her cheeks like small rivulets, and her cries of pure agony was lost to the vacuum she was in. She seized her leg by the knee and began pulling, pulling, until she was free of the spike. Then she felt herself falling. Her hair was loose and it flapped against her wet cheeks. The building before her was a tower made of painted glass. Like a church's stained windows. It told stories of men and women wearing cloaks of gold, crowns of red and copper, and held blades of pure darkness. The glass faded from her vision, becoming blurred with tears. The more she fell, the taller the tower grew. Her voice was hoarse from screeching for aid, but nothing but the great void answered with a bleak silence. She closed her eyes against the growing cold, until she felt it turn to agonizing heat.

She opened her eyes, and her tears mingled with sweat beading on her face. Her vision focused on the face of a phantom. Jacob's horrified gaze met hers.

"May! May, are you with me?!" He yelled. Maybelle flinched at the booming voice, "May, open your eyes and look at me."

She forced her eyes to widen to take him in. He held her with a hand under her neck, another slithered around her waist. He lingered over her and hissed obscenities as he glared at the box of spikes. Then his green eyes returned to hers.

"I told you not to touch anything, and it wasn't because I valued my privacy. It was because you have no idea what I have in this flat!" The woman was shivering, he raised her slim form and cradled her against his chest.

Her eyes began to droop despite her efforts to keep them open. Her hand reached up to claw at Jacob's white collar, but the strength diminished from her limb. It dropped and hit the ground, a pain blared in her knuckles. Her head tilted backwards, and her eyes glossed over. She couldn't remember them closing, but nonetheless, she saw nothing more than darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

Maybelle woke up with a start, propping herself up with her feeble arms. The blanket covering her slid down her body and landed on the rug. Jacob was sitting at his desk, glowering over a blood-tipped spike. His hand contained a written journal.

She called to him, but her voice was too weak. She cleared her throat and tried again, "Jacob."

He practically jumped from his chair and whipped around to answer her. His stiffened form soon relaxed when he saw her awake, heart still beating.

"What happened?" She asked, rubbing her eyes to free herself from a forgotten nightmare.

He sighed, giving her a once-over, "You cut yourself on a poison-tipped blade."

She furrowed her brows, "What sort of poison does this to a human?" She stood and noticed she was stripped free of her coat.

He paused, "What have you seen?"

"It's all blurry, but I think I was falling. I saw blood." She shivered in horror when she remembered the glass tower, "And a tower made of glass, painted like the windows of a church."

"I gather it was a horrible experience." He shrugged.

"Jacob, you seem to always state the obvious. I'm not sure if that's some sort of heavy sarcasm, but it's not funny." She made her way to the makeshift kitchen and peered inside the pantry.

Jacob followed her, "I just don't know what to tell you."

"An apology would be nice."

"Apologize? For not warning you about touching things in my flat? Oh wait! I did."

The pantry was a mess of vegetables, preserved jars of unappealing fish, and yesterday's cold leftovers. She closed the pantry with a dissatisfied sigh.

"What was this, anyway?" She turned to him, and quickly found that he was too close for comfort. She pressed her back to the pantry.

"It's hard to explain. It's a blade used by a group of people I once visited in India, some two years ago. They taught me how to use it. The blade is coated in a special poison that makes the victim hallucinate. Their greatest fear is a common vision, but some only see death in its simplest forms—death by blade, death by illness. And amusingly, some see themselves at their current state, hallucinating that the blade will bleed them dry."

"Oh, yes. That's very amusing." She brushed past him towards the window, which was now closed. Outside, the sun was rising. The sky was overcast with the smoke of a thousand waking chimneys.

He exhaled, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." She put her forehead to the glass and enjoyed its coolness. Her flesh still felt hot from the ordeal.

He messed around with the wooden box in the background. Who were the people Jacob spoke of? Could one of them be his sister? It was logical, since she sent him a relic from India.

"Jacob, who's Evie?"

After her question, Jacob's movements ceased to cause a ruckus. Which meant he was either thinking, or she was about to fall into a grave. She moved away from the window and dared to look at him. A scowl made his stern glare all the more ominous. He visibly stiffened, appearing taller than she ever saw him.

"Where have you heard that name? You better start talking before I give you another hallucination." His boots kicked at the box that was in its rightful place, to bolster his threat.

"I read her name on that statue." She nodded towards Kali the Destroyer.

He moved towards her. A slow, deliberate stride that was often reserved for intimidation. She held her ground, refusing to back into the window, and watched him as he stalked until he stood close enough for him to hear her quickening heartbeat.

"Don't touch anything in this flat, you hear me?" His voice was low. She couldn't help but nod. "And secondly, you already know who she is. But if you tell anyone I have a sister, I'll make you wish you were born three centuries prior. So you could never cross paths with me or anyone remotely related to me. Is that clear?"

He was simply Stocker in another manifestation, she told herself, looking him in the eye, "Why can't I ask about her?"

"Because it's none of your business! Do you find me asking about your father or mother? Do you?" His elevated voice drained half her courage.

"You can ask if you want to," She offered.

"I couldn't care less about your lineage. I only want to find the artifact so I could never see your face again!"

She stared at him with crestfallen hooded eyes that held obvious pain, "The feeling is damn near mutual, Frye." She pushed past him towards the door, and tried to get it open. But the bastard kept it locked through most of the day and kept the key under his shirt. She rubbed her eyes and willed herself not to cry.

She felt his presence somewhere behind her, and she instantly bristled. If he dared to touch her, she will break both his hands. She didn't care if he killed her afterwards with a bullet, or what he always wanted, a trip to the abyss through an open window.

"Stay out of my business. I stay out of yours. And we will make some progress. I have no other choices to offer." He muttered.

"You're an appalling man, Frye. I thought I've seen my fair share of bastards, but you made me reconsider that. I just wanted to…" Her voice faded and she began sobbing. She hated when someone saw her at vulnerable moments. Jacob was a man who witnessed several of them and caused further more. She felt her throat tightening as she held back warm tears.

He folded his arms, "Thank you for your honesty. Get dressed. We have a man to meet that could help us locate Willis' shit-squad."

* * *

Since she had no other outfits to fret over and try each, the process of dressing was silent and plagued with too many thoughts. She began questioning her life expectancy, and if Jacob's presence shortened it with his constant threats. Maybelle was sure he wasn't going to put a knife in her neck anytime soon—not until he wrings her dry of any and all information that could prove useful to him. It's a good thing she knew a lot from gossiping maids and the many hushed nights she spent on the roof.

They took the train until they got off at Rotherhithe. He explained to her that he sent a letter to this man sometime after the plans came into his possession and he studied them himself, his spy would have discovered all he could by now. He led her through the roads and stopped by Hawkstone. She realized he was going into Southwark Park.

They became lost in the green maze. The park was overrun with planetrees, rich with leaves that prospered as winter gave away to a lush spring. The smell on the air was refreshingly dewy, with hints of the clusters of trees carried on the wind. Maybelle smiled, wishing they'd be here on leisurely walk instead of having crucial work to do.

They left the cobblestone and began walking on the grass. He was close enough that their shoulders brushed every now and then, she cleared her throat.

"I didn't know your man was a fan of nature, Frye." She said.

"You don't know anything at all about any of my men." He said, hands going to his pockets.

"Well, I don't know anything about you either. Why is that, I wonder?" She smiled playfully.

"Because, like it or not, your former associates are Templars. I can't guarantee the _former_ part."

She scoffed, "You think Hayward will forgive me? He's a Willis. We don't forgive, we just take vengeance. I'm surprised one of his goons hasn't tracked me down and butchered me yet."

A spotted starling chirped in the distance, perched on a branch as it pecked at the tree's seeds. It flew after it had its fill. They neared a tree which branches extended to form an umbrella above the passerby. Maybelle leaped and tore a yellow leaf from the nearest branch and toyed with it between her fingers.

"It wouldn't be that easy to get to you, considering you're in my custody." He shrugged as he averted his eyes, scanning the leafy horizon.

His comment made her teeth grind, "I'm in nobody's custody. And frankly, if you haven't something I wanted, you would find your sofa empty when you wake up."

He shook his head as if he heard a silly remark from a sillier child, "I would hear you. You could be removing your blanket and I would hear the rustle of fabric."

"No, you wouldn't. I walked around your flat while you snored away, you didn't move a finger in response."

He scowled, eyes locked forward. Has she insulted him somehow? Her comment wasn't exactly kind, nor was it subtle. But she did not expect it to hurt him.

He remained quiet as they walked, and she couldn't take the wrecking silence anymore, "What is it, did I hurt your ego?"

He stopped, turning to squarely meet her gaze. He leaned towards her until she felt his breath on her face, his usual intimidating stance that merely caused her to feel uncomfortable. She refused to blink.

"Look, you might not know me, or know what I do, but know this—I worked hard to get to where I am right about now. Remember this before you begin to point out _flaws_ in my skills that you wouldn't dream of copying in the next hundred years."

She inclined her head, noticing that he finished, "But I do know what you do. Aren't you a gang leader? I think you're a part-time treasure hunter, too. Just on the weekends." She smirked to herself.

"To answer your question. We're here because our man feels threatened by any other location." His voice was even, but it almost wavered with impatience.

"Oh? Is your friend a squirrel, Frye? Does he like forests?"

He rolled his eyes, leaning away and continuing his trek, "Why am I trying to explain anything to her? God damn it."

She looked away, saving her eyes from the pain of looking upon such a lunatic.

They arrived to an area overlooking the pond, an expanse devoid of trees by the banks. A wooden bench, brightly colored, was in the midst of the clearing. A man was sitting on it, his arms over the back, legs extended and heels digging into the grass. Jacob inched closer and slapped the man on the shoulder.

The man jumped, "What?! What is it?! Can't a man have a bit of time to himself? I'll check on the wife later."

"No, Jude. Check on her now, she fell into a puddle of chocolate and needs your help! She should cut down on the sweets, the poor woman has a permanent sugar rush." Jacob said with a straight face and took a seat on the bench. The man he called Jude looked at him, recognition quickly came to his face.

"Jacob, you old devil. You scared the shit out of me." He scratched at his head, which was blackened by the smog. A hat wasn't in his lap. At least she could relate to him, but her hair was already charcoal-black.

Maybelle moved and stood next to the side of the bench, awaiting an introduction.

Jacob seemed to have caught on. He looked between her and the caramel-skinned man, "Jude, this is Maybelle. She's helping in our investigation."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," He said to her, and then to Jacob, "What kind of help is she offering?" His chocolate eyes were half amused, half confused.

"Information, for now. But I suppose she has different talents." Jacob eyed her, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Well, now. It's nice to meet a talented young woman. My name is Jude Elliot, my lady. But Jacob calls me the Passenger." Jacob chuckled at that.

"And, why is that?" She folded her arms.

Jacob put his heel over his knee, "I found him on a train ride when he was fresh out of America and looking for things to do."

"Yes, you see, I was a carpenter in America. A coffin-builder on the side. There's so much you could learn about folks, when you're crafting their last bed. But eventually, you grow tired of it."

Jacob continued, "He was snooping on me, on the train, as I talked with one of my…um…"

Jude's fingers tightened around the cane in his lap, "One of his friends, from the pub."

"Yes, that. I quickly recruited him, for the rooks, that is."

The answer left a bad taste in Maybelle's mouth, "Why would some gangsters need a spy? Did someone steal their record-breaking pint?"

Jacob snorted, then eyed her seriously, "Do you have any idea how many enemies one could rake when he's a gang leader? Too many, Maybelle. Too many."

"Scoot over." She said, and he did.

She sat on the edge of the bench, the proximity to Jacob being something she couldn't bother dealing with at the moment. The men small-talked as she viewed the soothing landscape, her eyes following a bevy of swans as they waddled in circles. Their heads momentarily dipping in the water, looking for bits of food.

"What have you learned?" Jacob asked, and Maybelle's focus shifted.

Jude shifted into his hushed voice, "I found one of your men. The one they called Blake Dixon."

"The right-hand-man? I thought he'd be strapped to Willis' arse."

Jude puffed, "You would rather a challenge, Jacob?"

Jacob nudged the man with his elbow, "Judie, you know me so well."

"Then lady luck hates you, man. Anyway, he's hauled up in The City, Somewhere off Castle Street. You know it? It's near Finsbury. The man has a gigantic estate to his name nestled into a slum. His wife and child is in the country, not attending The Season. Be careful."

"I always am." Jacob smirked and nodded at Jude. He wanted to leave, but Maybelle put a hand on his chest.

"Wait, I'd like to ask this gentleman a couple of questions. Frye."

Jacob grumbled, but he couldn't resist, "About what?"

"About _you_." She leaned forward and met the man's questioning gaze, she inclined her head and grinned with sunny warmness, "Can you tell me anything about this miserable idiot you see before you? He wouldn't tell me himself, and I sure could use a paper listing his limited virtues, if any at all." She poked Jacob with a finger, he gave her an aggravated look.

"Are you really going to let her say this garbage about me, Judie?" He pouted at the younger man. With his black uniform and his piercing green eyes, the action contrasted greatly. Maybelle chuckled at that.

Jude regarded Jacob with a playful smile, "An idiot he might be, my lady. But he is a good man. He might look like the sort to steal your beer when you ain't looking, but he would rather drink it right before you. After he cajoles you to hand it over, of course."

"He sounds like he's in the center of good and bad." She shrugged.

Jacob raised his brow, "I'm good when I want to be, bad when I have to be."

"And what about the rest of the day?"

He grinned, "I play. The more dangerous the game, the better."

She looked amused, "So, what? Do you dance in the rain when there's an influenza epidemic? Do you jump down waterfalls for the thrill of it? Do you take a dip in the Thames because you fancied cooling yourself? Do you drink that horrible abomination called lemonade for the taste? Tell me."

He leaned in, "All that, and more."

Jude cleared his throat quietly, and Jacob righted himself to look at him, "Least he told you himself, you said he wouldn't tell you anything?"

She shrugged, "He remains secretive most of the time."

They shared a look Maybelle half-understood. They were probably in the same secretive allegiance, but she wouldn't pay a penny to learn its name. Suddenly, an idea surged into her mind.

"Jude, I gather you know the faces of a lot of people in London?" Maybelle asked him while messing with a loose string on her coat.

"I know everyone whose anyone as long as they aren't constantly changing identities—as I sometimes do when I'm on duty." He adjusted his grey collar with a proud smile, "Who are you looking for?"

"A woman called Myra Willis. She looks a lot like me, but with brown hair and grey eyes, like silver."

Fred's brows furrowed, he put his cane against the bench, "I don't recall the name itself. I have to return to my office to find if I had previous dealings with her family… Wait, did you say Willis?"

Jacob joined in with a suspicious look, "Yes, did you?"

"I did. If any of you are wondering, she isn't in the Order, or whatever it is you're up against. She's my sister. I'm just inquiring to see if I could… if I could still consider her alive. I want to know if I'm the last child of Josephine Willis. She was a beautiful, kind woman, and I don't expect to live long due to the nature of what I do…"

The spy nodded slowly, his hair whipping against his forehead due to a sudden gust of wind, "You're looking for closure, that it?"

She wanted to answer him verbally, but she gave him a weak nod instead.

"I understand. I will ask my men to look for the name, but my area is London. I have a couple of men stationed in Manchester, too. I can't promise much."

"She was in Nottinghamshire- last I saw her." Maybelle looked away, feeling the memories of Myra's departure weigh down on her.

Jacob sat up when he heard the tidbit of knowledge, "You're from Nottingham? What brings you to London, then? Moved when the factories began doubling?"

She ignored Jacob and looked at Jude instead, "I would appreciate any help you could give. Thank you. Closure is the only thing I want. If she doesn't want to come home… my home, then I will let her be. But I _need_ to know if she survived. So, if you find traces of her whereabouts, please tell me."

He nodded earnestly, "Right you are, my lady."

Jacob let out a bored sigh, "Are we done here? We don't have much time to kill, we're all busy folks here."

She shrugged, "Suppose so. Let's find the man you're so eager to murder."


	11. Chapter 11

The trip aboard the train was unbearable. Not because of its length, nor because of the expense of both their tickets, which was reasonable. But because she had to suffer through another bout of silence with him beside her. She sat on the cushioned chair with her eyes towards the window, her hand beneath her chin. The other folk who occupied the rest of the car were chatting loudly about the weather, reading newspapers and discussing the government's recent decisions. The consistent buzz kept Maybelle's sanity in check.

A sudden swaying of the train made Jacob's shoulder collide with hers. She shied away from the contact and studied the passing landscape as if she was to paint it soon. She felt Jacob's eyes on her back.

"Can you tell me more about your sister?" He asked as casually as he could.

She stared at him, he has the audacity to ask about Myra after he violently refused to tell her about Evie? "You said my linage didn't interest you. I _loved_ that pivotal moment in our companionship…"

He exhaled, his eyes still watching her every blink. Maybelle almost believed he dropped the subject, but he spoke again, "If this is about what happened in the flat, I'll tell you. Evie is my twin sister. She left for India with her betrothed at the later part of the sixties. It was the summer of nineteen sixty nine. I still remember waving goodbye as she boarded the ship, heading off into the ocean, leaving me by myself in London."

Maybelle turned and the look in her eyes changed to that of sympathy, "You lived alone in London for all that time?"

"Yes, mostly. I stayed to make sure the Order doesn't spring back up to retake London. I suppose I was successful only for a brief period, but this will soon change." He glanced solemnly and his voice became low, "London won't bend its knee to oppression ever again."

"Oppression, what do you mean? Oppression will never fade from London- it will never fade from the world. It was ingrained in human nature since he first walked this Earth."

"No, you don't understand," He shook his head, trying to form a simple clarification for what he meant, "The Templars—the people you once worked for—those represent tyranny in its purest form. My… mentor tried to teach me about what they had done to the world through time, but I often paid his stories no heed. It was fortunate that I experienced some of their misdemeanors first hand. Then I found myself learning of their evil."

"What did they do?" She asked, turning in her seat until their knees bumped. He didn't seem to notice, too far gone in his own memories.

"Vile, unfathomable things. My sister tried to show me what they've done, but it was not until I lifted a book myself that I learned of their injustice. They manipulated every corner of history you've ever read. Their ideology is striving for order, but order is moot when freedom is oppressed."

She let that sink in, "Order is sacred. You can't possibly believe order is inherently a bad thing? If it weren't for order, chaos would prevail. I prefer order to an uncertain future."

He appeared exasperated with her opinion, "And what of freedom? Don't you value the ability to do whatever you want?"

She shrugged, looking around her as if a believable answer was written somewhere, "I suppose freedom is important." And she believed what she uttered—if she had freedom, she would've made her own decisions about her life. She would've gone anywhere she ever wanted, "But what if everybody is given freedom, wouldn't that be a disaster?"

"A fair point that I've often tried to understand. But you must know the Templars have but one goal—subjection. They believe mankind is chaotic and animalistic, and there would be no way for its development if its nature wasn't kept in check. What would life be like if mankind was oppressed by a small group of people who are bound to fall to corruption once their goal is finally reached?"

"I see your point."

Jacob opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He looked away from Maybelle's questioning gaze.

"What is it?"

He cleared his throat, "There's a quote I… read somewhere. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. This is what explains my point of view as clearly as I want."

"Nothing is true?"

"The actions of others are based on opinions and what they were raised to believe. Entire civilizations will not question the morality of one action, while utterly hating another. All because this is what they've been told to do."

"And everything is permitted. I see why you value this quote. If everything is permitted, then you won't be blamed for killing the four guards I ate and trained with. You use this doctrine to further your own goals-"

"No," He cut her off with a grunt, "I would _never_. If the deed will serve the freedom of mankind in the long run, I will do it. There's nothing wrong, just as there is nothing right."

"All for freedom. All for a vision of disorder."

He shook his head, giving her a sad smile, "I don't blame you for believing in the Order's ideology—you've been born and raised among them. Yet I am sure you will see the consequences of their actions, and will finally see behind their empty promises of new hope."

"But, what is your business with preventing their rule, anyway? It's not as if you're gaining anything from the Order's demise."

He took a long breath, "I can't sit idly by hoarding all this power that could prevent chaos, and watch as those men overtake such a beautiful city. I might be a gang leader, but my goals aren't always… rape and pillage."

She giggled, turning away from him, "Frye, I know that you think I'm too stupid to logically exist, but I'm not. I know you're a part of something greater than a gang, much greater. But I frankly don't care whether you're a member of the government, the army, or the sadomasochism scene. I just want my gauntlet. And don't look at me like that, I'm not a moron."

And perhaps he was right. Freedom was something she lacked through her entire life. But if she had freedom, so will the next woman, and the next man. In the end, there will be nothing but liberty. But liberty is not peace. Liberty is chaos. Liberty is fear of the unknown. She wouldn't claim freedom for herself if it meant a catastrophe for the rest. His views might've had a noble goal, but they only meant disaster.

* * *

Castle Street was crowded at such a time. Despite that it wasn't a main street, men in tuxedos rushed across it to serve the queen and the parliament as much as they could. The Honourable Artillery Company was partially visible from Maybelle's position. Its wide, open grounds perfuming the air with the scent of damp grass.

"So, where is the estate?" She looked at the dozens of small flats built stiflingly close to each other. There was no shelter left for the homeless to survive the cold or rain. Intel said they should look for the largest mansion in the street. But there were no mansions, just the staggering smell and the old, small buildings.

"It's the one with the almost-pink rooftop and the dark stone, at the end of the street. Don't look, but it's over there." He nodded towards a general direction towards the far right. They kept walking.

"How am I supposed to see it without looking?"

"It's not important. I've already marked the place in my memory. We will attack at midnight." He kept his gaze forward. A man holding a wet umbrella bumped into him. Neither of them uttered an apology.

"Just like that? Do you actually have a plan, or do you intend on simply invading the place once the residents begin to snooze?" Maybelle hoped the failure to concoct a reliable course of action wasn't a trait they shared. If so, they were doomed.

"I will give you a brief overview once we reach the vantage point."

Her mouth went dry, "V-vantage point?"

"Yes. You will stay at the top for a few hours until I make some final preparations and fetch some weapons. I trust you won't find your own way down, which is why I'm leaving you to watch any change with great confidence that you won't abscond and serve your dear uncle once more."

Her eyes darted around, beginning to look for Jacob's vantage point to measure its height, "Fuck. And when I thought it was the end of my climbing days."

He chuckled wholeheartedly, "Trust me. It's not even the beginning."

She stopped in her tracks, letting Jacob continue on as she kept searching for an obvious point Jacob would choose. She immediately felt sick. Casting her eyes downward, she took steps backward until she felt her back collide with a stone fence. Her shoulder blades became sore, but she resisted the desire to rub them. Jacob stopped and looked at her.

Across the narrow street, three street urchins stomped in the mud and surrounded a man clutching a bag close to his chest. His hat fell as he looked up and assessed the children's intentions. The oldest boy began talking to the man and the other two relieved him of his possession. They dashed across the sidewalk and disappeared behind a corner. The man didn't try to rush after them. The rich, refreshing smell of rainwater became evident to Maybelle as it slowly evaporated from stone.

She felt Jacob inch closer, "Why'd you stop? The place is just ahead," He pointed to a place in the distance, but she didn't follow his finger.

She clenched her teeth and leaned her weight against the wall, she was sure her elbows were becoming red with exertion. Maybelle closed her eyes against the slight breeze, listening to the faraway trots of a couple horses.

"May, let's go." He held her arm and tried to pry her off the wall, but she pulled back.

"Give me a moment, Frye. I can't breathe." She tried to draw oxygen through her pursed lips, but she felt the air wasn't enough, "Why did it have to be a bloody roof?"

She could almost hear Jacob's eyes roll, "Isn't this your virtue? You're a sniper, for god's sake. I assume you scaled countless buildings, carriages, and possibly a couple of cats. You can't possibly be afraid of this mansion?"

She opened her eyes and regarded him with a snarl, "I don't think I've climbed anything without a ladder included."

He adjusted his hat carefully, "I think I got you covered."

"What do you mean?"

He allowed himself a cheeky grin, "I mean your problem has just been solved."

She wanted to slap the smile off of him, "Tell me! What do you mean?" She leaned away from the wall.

"You won't find out until we reach the place, kitten."

"Don't call me that." She crossed her arms.

"I didn't hear any objections when I gave the name to you, kitten."

She grumbled, pushing at his shoulder, "Show me the place, Frye."

He took her through the street. The value and age of the buildings seem to deteriorate the further they walked, which made Maybelle unsure of the mansion's existence. Perhaps Frye was pulling her leg? On her right was a small grocer that took the tiniest amount of space between two flats. Rotten tomatoes and ears of corn adorned the blackening counters, almost falling from the crammed bundles. The grocer lay behind one counter, wrapping a newspaper around a handful of brown carrots.

"Hungry? Jacob asked, amused.

"No, I'm just wondering how the homeless survive after eating this garbage. It makes you think… I used to have meat and cheese for breakfast every day—the man wanted properly fed guards. I never thought about what is thrown on other people's dishes."

"That's the slums for you," He said, keeping his eyes locked on the distance, "You haven't seen the poorest areas yet. This is nothing."

She stuffed her hands in her pockets, "Oh? What is it like, then?"

"I would tell you, but I want you to keep your breakfast down for now."

The two buildings were just ahead. A towering mansion stood at the end of the road, swallowing up a large area of the street that could've been used for more flats for the homeless. The sharp tidiness of the building and its garden stood out like a sore thumb between the yellowing flats and bent lampposts. The ground beneath their feet was gradually becoming dark with ash that refused to be swept away by wind or underpaid employees looking for tips. On their left was a large, blackened frame of a building some of the homeless took shelter in. The faint orange of their fires danced against the fallen columns and wrecked floors. On the pavement, feeble attempts to clear the wreckage resulted in crumbles of burnt stone mixed with the mud. It was a disgusting sludge that clung stubbornly to expensive hems and shoes.

"And old blacksmith's company. A fire happened here, some six months ago. I don't think the authorities are much interested in clearing the wreckage." Jacob said, kneeling behind an abandoned wagon and studying the building.

She joined him, gathering the tails of her coat in one arm, "At least the poor use it for shelter…"

"They will scarper when they hear your supporting bullets."

She sighed, "So, this is your vantage point."

"In its flesh and bones. Feast your eyes." He smirked.

"Please tell me whatever you have in store will avoid my untimely death." Her fingers gripped the wood of the fallen carriage.

"I can't make such promises," He winked before standing and shaking his coat free of mud. She turned away from the mountain of filth.

He led her around the burnt premise to the only still-standing corner. A sign dangled from the top with the faded words of 'Barry's Blacksmith' painted in faint red letters. The three storeys sloped towards the ground from this spot, it might be the sturdiest point in the entire building.

"There's a small, sturdy area left on the third story. The wall is partially destroyed, but that's fortunate for you. You could fire through the holes…" Jacob said as he nodded towards the top.

"What if the ground collapses?"

"Then… uh, you get to have a bit of fun sliding down before you die." He smiled innocently.

She glared, her fists closing, "That's not funny."

He shook his head, "It won't collapse. The building stood like so for months, it won't just fall because someone stepped on it. Now let's go, we're wasting time."

He took her left arm and hooked it around his neck, pulling her closer. She wanted to stop whatever he was attempting, but hesitated when he looked down at her with those hazel eyes, a gentle smile on his lips. He smelled powerfully of something invigorating, which mixed with his sweat and the leather of his outfit. Her cheeks painted red. She wanted to kick herself.

"Hold on." He said, his arm snaking around her waist. He aimed his free hand upwards and clenched his teeth.

And in a manner of seconds, Maybelle was taken back to the night the phantom almost claimed her soul. She became a phantom alongside him as they flew upwards like a lit firework, the metallic rotation inside Jacob's gauntlet becoming lost in the wind that touched her ears. Maybelle stopped breathing. She held onto him with both arms, legs going to link together around his thigh. She was only faintly aware of her cheek pressing mightily against his, the roughness of his stubble prickling her until it left tiny red marks. He let go of her waist and used his strength to carry them both towards the seared wall. At the top, he slinked around the small, upright wall and inched towards the corner.

It only lasted mere seconds, but it was an eternity in Maybelle's mind. Jacob was standing on solid ground, his gauntlet sucking the rope into its mechanical darkness.

"You can let me go, now." He adjusted his hat.

She mumbled an apology, arms unwrapping and feet finding the ground.

She looked around. The area was tinier than she had perceived from below. Glass fragmented under her feet—remnants of a blown up window. The two walls that formed the corner were covered with ash and the crumbled remains of red wallpaper. The small area ended with an edge leading to a deadly fall. The weight of the ceiling that had fallen snapped the wood off and left the edge with sharp, protruding floorboards like the teeth of a shark. The two of them barely fit in the unsteady corner, and bumped into each other as they wrestled for space.

"Nice place you picked." She began.

"You have a better idea?" He peered through one of the many holes, briefly studying the area, "You have a good view of the garden. I suppose some guards will patrol the area for you to take out. Once it's clear, I'll climb into the mansion, kill the man, and get out the same way I walked in. Don't shoot me. You got that?" He moved away from the wall and looked at her.

She shrunk away from his firm glare, "Yes, I got it. Take them out one by one before they find you and kill you… or me."

He nodded, "I'll get your equipment. Keep watching the place for any changes. If you see someone climb into a carriage, assume that it's our man. If we were this unfortunate, we'll try another plan."

And with that, he climbed down the building and jogged out of the street, dodging a coming carriage that almost crushed him. Maybelle sighed and glanced at the ground beneath her. She tested the firmness of the wood with a tap of one foot, it was stable enough. But who knows how long it will stay this way? She tried to slow her anxiety, crouching by the wall and letting herself take in the landscape through the gap. If she was someone else, her opinion would differ greatly, and she would call the vista beautiful. But she was Maybelle, and the sight of the far ground she witnessed with one blue eye chilled her to the bone.

She snapped her eyes shut, nails scrapping against the rough stone. To think she would have to spend an entire evening in this nest. She preferred a hundred years of Willis' roof to this.

She forced herself to glance at the mansion again. If she wasn't prepared when the time came, the whole operation will be botched and she will lose her life. By Jacob before his enemies.

Under the afternoon light, the pink hue of the roof turned into a melting haze. The garden below was clear of any trees, and substituted their presence with dozens of bushes. A lamppost was in the midst of the path that led to the doorstep. It served as the only source of light in the garden. Lit through the afternoon and probably through the whole day. The ground was devoid of guards except two or three uniform-wearing men that disappeared from her view behind a bush as quick as they appeared. Despite the blatant contrast in sizes of the four-story mansion and the rookeries, its darkened stone made it fit well with the sombre ambiance of the squalor.

It might be a wise thing Blake did—building a mansion in the midst of a poor street like that. Robbers that targeted the estate weren't as skilled and prepared as those she had to deal with at Mayfair. They were simply folks who tried sneaking into the kitchens for a most-needed bite, or a man who searched for a trinket or two to sell for medicine. Hiding in plain sight. It was something she wanted to learn for a long time.

Jacob climbed in again after what felt like thirty minutes, a rifle strapped to his back.

"Why hello there, seems I've found a squatter. Lose your nerve yet?" He teased.

She glared as menacingly as she could while she huddled in the corner, "No. Got something for me?"

"Got a couple, yes." He lifted the rifle away from his shoulder and gave it to her. She stood and tested the weight and length until he unstrapped a dagger from his thigh. He threw it at her feet.

"Got me a knife too?" She bent down to pick it up.

"Yes. Look at me, handing you new toys to kill me with." He said dryly.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you before you help me down." She smiled, "So, now what?"

"Now, we wait for nightfall. Nine o'clock sharp would be preferable."

She scowled, "I don't have a timepiece."

Jacob's eye twitched before he reached into his coat. He handed her a silver watch. Maybelle felt it ticking vigorously against her hand. The lid was carved with a stylized impression of a bird's head. A corvid, perhaps, "What about you?"

He shrugged, "I'll nick one, don't worry about me." He made his way to the edge of the building, "This is the part where I tell you to watch out. You know. Watch. Out. Through the holes?" He pointed to the holes in the wall and chuckled.

"You're leaving?" She wasn't fond of his presence, but still, it meant she wasn't alone at this height, again.

"Yes. I have to scout out the area. Look around the fences and try to see what the guards are working with, and where the Templar positioned them. On nine sharp I'll start the assault, cover me and never climb down. I imagine the garden will be darker than coal once it's night, I can't be held responsible if I mistake you for a guard and _accidentally_ thrust a blade into your chest. Alright?"

"Uh-huh."

"See you, kitten." And he began to climb down.


	12. Chapter 12

Maybelle exhaled on the scope, letting the coolness of London form a thin veil of mist over the glass. She wiped at the lens for the eighth time this hour. The timepiece hung at her side, its chain suspended by its lope by her shirt's small button. The silver thing ticked against her beating heart, tick-thrum, tock-thrum. She felt the two entities racing against each other.

It was almost nine, and by the looks of it, Jacob was nowhere in sight. She had peered into the darkness that loomed behind the wrecked border that separated her from inquisitive eyes. But the dark-clad man was nowhere to be seen. Either that he bailed on her, leaving her to deal with the men alone after pulling an _especially_ filthy prank on her, or his clothing was black enough that his figure was swallowed into the void of shadow. Her only companion that kept her at ease was a miniature candle that was almost melted flat by constant use. But she was sure it was deliberate on Jacob's behalf. He might've snatched it from the sill of an unsuspecting family or two, depriving them of their right to see. Or maybe he planned ahead, keeping the small thing lit for days and days. The thread became almost-buried in the searing glaze. The flame began to fade.

She checked the watch again—three minutes to nine. She laid the muzzle atop a breach in the stone and looked through the lens. Not even the movement of his flowing tailcoat, not even the rustle of leaves or crisp grass under determined feet. There was nothing. He tricked her. He told her he'll be waiting for her at Nine sharp, did he slip and mean Ten? Did he mean tomorrow's Nine? No, it can't be this drastic. He back-stabbed her, as would anyone to a woman they did not trust. She came from the dungeons of men he loathed, from the bowels of an alliance she wasn't aware she was a part of. She lifted her eyes from the lens.

The flame took its last breath, and Maybelle was left in the darkness of the building, and the red-fury of her heart.

In the distance, Big Ben chimed Nine. Could the heartbeat of London be wrong? No, it was impossible. Rich and poor depended on that tower, both alike in their respect for it. It was nine, _it was nine._

And what's next for her then? Betray the man that betrayed her. Take the map for herself. Search for the gauntlet alone. Could she do it? Could she rise above those that had immeasurable amounts of power and respect? Her knees ached as they pressed against the planks beneath her. Her fingers curled around the barrel of her rifle until her knuckles whitened. _Leave._ Her thoughts told her. Leave and don't look for the gauntlet again. Her stubbornness made her peer into the glass one last time.

The dead of night was drawn away by the longer days of spring. Under the soft gloom of a crescent moon and under a dark blue sky he crouched. Low against the short fence, his body seemingly vanishing against the railings. The distant lone lamppost lit the side of his face. His hazel eyes were marred with a similar sort of worry. The fear that she had abandoned him to search for the monster alone.

Through the haze of uncertainty, Maybelle lifted her hand against the biggest gap and let her fingers curl. She couldn't hazard a wave, since guards littered the area behind Jacob, and would notice the movement like a hawk searching for a skittering rat. Big Ben's chimes stopped, the echo still fresh in her memory.

She could've sworn she saw him nod, then he moved over the fence and into the bowls of the tangled, overgrown mess Blake called a garden. Maybelle readied her rifle and looked through the scope, following the gang leader as he tiptoed on the tall grass. Her finger was against the trigger. Her pulse rivaled the fleeting seconds.

She watched the black phantom as he moved behind a guard patrolling the east side of the premise, he was darkness incarnate. The man Jacob targeted was many inches taller than him, but he was in the way of his ultimate goal—the mansion that stood like a hulking mass, anchoring on the end of the grass, its brick walls as dark as the hearts that Jacob described with blind vehemence.

Jacob thrust his hands against the guard's back, as if he was congratulating him on honest success. The man crumbled to the ground, his fall slightly absorbed by the thickness of the grass and made but a whisper. His killer moved over the body, catlike, wrists dripping with blood. It was almost nonsensical. Magical. She witnessed the mist of that ghost, felt it through her fingers, flew with it, even. But it never changed the way she looked at him. She was brought back to a place and time she vowed to never return. She struggled against the desire to close her eyes.

Jacob flowed through the garden like a silent plague, adding corpses to the world of the dead in his wake. He became close to the lamppost, stalking his third kill, when his prey noticed him. Hunter became the hunted. The blonde, helmet-less guard raised the alarm with brief words that thrummed in Maybelle's chest. _Intruder! Middlemost!_

 _I can see you._ She held her breath and fired, and the man was silenced forever.

Jacob moved across the garden in his gliding crouch, hiding behind a particularly large bush that would drive any gardener bonkers. The leaves would offer him moments of solitude, but not a shield. She had to act. Several of those who heard the final call of a troubled man came to his aid ten seconds too late. They began to look for the blade-bearer and his helper. Maybelle had a woman in her sights. Short, young, whimsical. As she passed by the lamplight, Maybelle locked her sights and wasted no time to hazard another chance. The brunette's head spewed blood against the black lamppost. She fell back against a guard, and he failed to catch the dying body. She tumbled limply to the ground. Done for.

By the time the group recovered, Jacob had moved to a different hiding spot. A pang of realization made Maybelle quiver in fear—she would not tell the difference between friend or foe. Not even the bleak contrast in their clothing would indicate something to her mind, no, not in the heat of battle. Not when she has a rifle in her hands. When Maybelle found herself in a nest, there were two kinds of people—those that erased their plans of attacking, or those who were too mutilated to have an open casket funeral.

Maybelle sucked in a breath and chose a guard to focus on, one that wasn't tall enough to qualify as a certain hazel-eyed phantom. She found the lad and prepared to shoot, but before she did, her actions were interrupted by a deafening bullet that suddenly made her head numb. It took her a few blinks to realize her right ear was split at the top, and blood was cascading down her neck like warm wine. She swiped at her neck as her thoughts clamored to make sense of the situation. Jacob was down there, outnumbered and vastly under-equipped. He needed her. The puzzle was solved. It was another sniper. A mocking twin that mirrored her and wanted to see her dead. A damn good shot, since he fired through one of the gaps. Maybelle went prone and peered through the lowest hole with a bare eye, looking for her reflection.

He was on the roof, his features barely lit by the falling darkness, as if he was the sky itself. Maybelle reached for her rifle and grabbed the small box of ammunition. She lifted herself and almost attempted to reload, but the sniper took another shot into the unknown. Her instinct told her to duck, so she did. She lunged across the ground with sheer horror, her mind swarming and checking if she was still alive by inducing a rough shiver. The box fell from her grasp and over the edge of the broken ground. Down the hole that led to a certain death three storeys below. The box spewed the bullets out, letting them clink against various areas. Out of instinct, she crawled over and tried to save the box that might hold the fates of two souls within. Her hand extended, but her fingers touched nothingness.

She heard a crack.

Not a crack of the bone—no, she heard that when Stocker decided to teach a thieving maid a lesson in biology. It was the unmistakable crack of wood, like a tree leaving its precious roots. Like a cane snapping against her back when all she could shout was _No._ The crack echoed again, this time higher, larger. The ground snapped beneath her, taking her sliding downwards, into the mouth of a beast she feared for a long time. Its wooden teeth scrapped against her arm, snatching bits of thread and fabric to keep for its own. Her rifle fell out of the nest, plummeting into the depths. Her body left the planks that once formed her nest, and she fell onto the next story with a grunt that drew the breath out of her. She heard the cries of the homeless below, perhaps unfazed by the recent noises of bullets. Maybelle could do nothing but stare as the ceiling came crashing down around her, enveloping the second story in a nightmarish earthquake. She finally screamed, her petrified voice lost among the chaos of a falling building. The ground shook and collapsed to the story below. The building began to crumble after so many months of standing proudly over the slum. She refused to let it be her tomb.

She stood and dashed to the apparent exit—which was now a mere gap in the remainder of the wall that settled among the wake of dust. She coughed and crawled under the hole to the crisp air outside. Behind her she heard wood and stone clash with ear-splitting chaos, her hair stood on end. She stood and moved from the impending danger, dodging broken shards of wood and flying pieces of bricks. The chaos ceased, leaving the building a flat, burnt wreckage. It soon woke in fire again—the flames of the homeless who inhabited it, doused momentarily by the dust, only to rise once more.

"There, I see her!" A voice called in the distance, a man. She heard approaching footsteps, nimble, heavy, suggesting danger. She looked at the source. A guard was racing towards her, his eyes almost glowing with revenge for his fallen as they burned on her, his arms extending fully as he hurried towards the crumbling, dusty ruins that fell around the raven-haired woman.

Maybelle reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh, hearing the leather of the sheath tear as she pulled out the blade. The panting guard aimed at her as he ran, firing a deadly shot that she miraculously dodged. They met in the midst of the empty street, Maybelle slashing at his neck and him taking another aim. He fired, and she grunted as she crouched to stab at his torso. He doubled over in pain, throwing his Colt across with a shaking hand. The weapon hit the cobblestone and fired a shot towards the unknown. Maybelle fought to seize it, her knees hitting the ground as she darted to the fallen weapon. The man fell with a thud behind her, but a hand grasped her ankle, pulling her away from the revolver with surprising strength. She yelped, kicking at guard's head, her gaze on his thick hand but her body stretching to take the prize. Maybelle's fingertips touched the still-smoking barrel, and with a choked yell, she gathered the revolver and twisted to fire at the guard's head. The grip on her ankle loosened.

She rose, an itch in her throat and dust in her nostrils. Her cheek was scratched by small bits of stone. She almost slipped on the gathering pool of blood as she hurried towards the garden, the revolver gleaming in one hand while the other held a dripping blade. Her silhouette glowed with the fire that slowly gnawed at the brick skeleton behind her. The sniper fired again, his bullet dizzyingly fast, echoing as it crossed the battlefield. The fence thwarted his attempts, the elongated bullet bouncing off. She crouched behind it, her composure waning as she tasted something bitter and smelled death and burning stone. She sucked in a breath and leaned over the low fence, one eye closing, her hand rising to aim at her doom. She fired, the gunman dropped his targeting stance and clutched his belly, leaning forward. He fell off the edge, roaring until his body splattered on the courtyard below. Maybelle looked away, her eyes wet with fear. She heard the pained groans of struggling men.

She forced herself to push on, stepping foot into the garden and looking for Jacob. He was battling with three guards on the west, the blood of his foes blending with the blackness of his coat, his own blood smeared on his face, coming from a dripping cut on his cheek. His hat was missing, revealing the brown hair underneath. Maybelle planted her feet and aimed the gun, her sights flitted from body to body, following them until she had a good shot. Once a man hesitated and stopped trying to hit Jacob with his metal knuckles, she fired. She heard a click. It came from between her hands.

"Shit!" She dropped the revolver and bolted to the man with a roar. He waited for her, almost beckoning, a smirk on his face.

They clashed, the hulk of a man attempting to feed her metallic punches, one connecting and bruising her jaw. She fell into a crouch and thrust the dagger into the guard's ribs, pulling it to watch the cut ooze blood. He lunged at her and they both fell on the grass. He punched and it connected with her cheekbone. She yelled, clenching her teeth. His weight took the breath out of her, she struggled to keep her eyes open. Maybelle squirmed against the man and heard him laugh. A hand wrapped around her throat, blocking her air. She felt her head go hot with blood. If she didn't act, he would choke her until he grew tired and snapped her neck with ease. She lifted her hand and plunged the dagger into his left eye. He fell onto her, and she wriggled to push him away. Jacob was finishing off the final guard, his face almost unrecognizable, concealed thickly behind gleaming blood.

Jacob stabbed his wrists into the guard's belly repeatedly, and he let his corpse go. It fell right next to Maybelle's panting form.

His hazel eyes were dark with frenzy. He wiped his face on his sleeve, "I told you not to leave your post!"

"Haven't you looked at the building, Frye?!" She stood and watched the orange smoke, people refused to gather around the wreck, afraid of the battlefield that raged near it.

"What happened?" He asked, eyes wild. The only thing that wasn't bloody about him was the whites of his eyes.

"The ground collapsed. I told you! I told you this would happen! You wouldn't listen!" She cried, pushing him. But the force barely moved him.

"Where would you like me to put you instead? Alongside me? You would like that? You would like being crushed to death by one of these?" He waved to the massacre of guards.

"I fared rather well. And without my help, you wouldn't be standing here."

"No, I wouldn't. I would already be on my way into the mansion instead of bickering with you." He shut his mouth and marched into the courtyard, leaving her in pools of blood the dirt refused to absorb.

Maybelle groaned and hurried behind him, her hand going to touch her raw cheek. Even the wind made it pulse with pain.

"Do you think he ran?" She asked as they ascended the front steps.

He wiped his hands at his sides to clean them, getting them filthier instead, "If he did, I'll chase him, don't worry."

"And what if there's more guards inside?" She asked, but she was too late. He kicked the front door open and walked inside. She followed hesitantly.

The mansion looked and felt empty. A chandelier lit the entrance with only a third of its candles. The wax dripped down the golden handles and joined the drying pool on the tiles. A grand staircase was in front of them leading left and right to the mansion's facilities. Two corridors waited on the left and right. Both of them cold and deserted, the light of the chandelier not reaching them.

"Where is everyone?" She asked.

Jacob smirked, his vision scanning the second level, "They're afraid of us, kitten. They ran."

She grumbled, folding her arms, "Great, that's what we needed. What do you propose we do now, Frye? Chase him until we end up in Scotland?"

"I would rather visit Wales. But yes, I'll chase him into whatever." He began walking into the corridor on the right, reaching into his coat to pull brass knuckles out and sliding them down his fingers. The hem of his coat dripped blood on the beige tiles.

"Do you think Blake has maids, Frye? I think they'd be furious once they see their little guest ravaging the mansion." She pointed at his coat. The bloodstains smeared under her boots as she walked.

"On the contrary, I think he cleans the mansion himself. I mean, look at this mess," He waved to the dusty furniture, "I would not choose to live here."

She snorted, putting her hands in her pockets.

They searched the whole corridor, which led to a kitchen and a small room with a lone table. They found their way back, forlorn. Jacob stared up the staircase for the second time.

He scratched the dry blood from the side of his lip, "I don't think the other corridor has anything of interest. Let's just climb up."

"Whatever you say, Frye."

They made their way to the second story, which was unlit and smelled of mold. Jacob took a left and began to explore the corridor. Maybelle stood at the railings and searched the other side with keen interest. Did the man really disappear? That would be highly likely. His men provided a commotion while he fled from the backdoor and took a carriage out of London. That would be a reasonable plan to anyone who feared for their life. She licked her lips and tasted the bloody remnants of the guards. Maybelle gagged.

Jacob noticed her absence, and he called from a room, "What are you looking for? He wouldn't be hanging from the ceiling, kitten."

"I'm just checking if anyone's really in here." She walked away from the railings and followed the bloodstains through the hallway. She arrived as Jacob exited a bedroom with an irritated vibe to him.

"I won't leave until we search the entire area." He said and brushed by her, leaving the hallway and going into another.

A gigantic mansion like this would take hours to fully explore, but Jacob was brisk. Giving each room a quick glance before slamming the door with an annoyed moan. She followed behind, eyes stinging with exhaustion and the bite of failure. They reached the other side of the staircase and Jacob took to the nearest hallway. Three rooms were within, an empty, small bedroom, and a room housing variously coloured bolts of clothing and a dozen baskets. Jacob stood at the last door, his hand going to the handle. But before he touched it, he stopped.

Maybelle noticed his scowl, "What is it?"

"I feel..." He paused, touching the golden handle, "Can you feel something warm coming out of this room? A wind…"

Her body instantly bristled as it felt heat radiate from the door, "What? Do you think there's someone in there? Oh, shit. He's in there."

Jacob hushed her and reached for his revolver, she heard him suck in a breath, and he breached into the room.

Inside, a small boy jumped from his slumber, drawing red blankets to his shivering face. He was barely seven, his features were further softened by the faint glow of the fireplace. How did he sleep through the fight?

Maybelle's eyes widened, her lip quivering as her eyes met the boy's gaze. Jacob was covered from head to two in dry blood and dirt, while dust stuck to her clothing and the caked injuries on her face. They looked like two demons out of a horror tale, come steal the boy from the embrace of his mother. Maybelle put a hand on Jacob's shoulder, pulling slightly. The kid began to cry silently.

"Jacob, let's leave." She said, pulling him back again. He remained rigid, his jade eyes never leaving the boy. He slowly nodded.

Maybelle glanced at the weeping boy as he cowered in his bed, "It's alright, we won't hurt you. I promise you." She tugged at Jacob again, and he finally budged. He slammed the door, his stare practically burning a gap into the wood.

"Jacob, let's go."

His breathing was loud, "I almost fired…"

"You didn't, let's move." She said softly.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then he continued his search with a permanent frown.

"If he's here, then his father is most definitely here." He said, exiting the hallway and mindlessly picking the next area to search. He walked into the middlemost hallway.

At the end of the darkness was a lone door, larger than the rest, its grandness surely promising in his eyes. Maybelle waited and watched him fiddle with the lock eagerly.

"If his father's here, do you think this is an ambush?"

He shook his head, "It's too silent, I can't hear anything."

She grunted, "You haven't heard the boy either."

He snapped the lockpick, his breathing went rigid, "Do you think I would hear his breathing, May? I barely noticed that he was a kid when we walked in."

She almost parted her lips to offer him help with the lock, but suddenly, she felt the barrel of a gun touch the back of her skull.

The silent scuffle of what felt like a dozen men reverberated behind the pair. Jacob froze in his crouch, his fingers pausing as he listened. Maybelle swallowed, eyes wide.

"Don't move, kids. But I'll be glad if you give my men an excuse to shoot you." It was said with authority, control. The voice reminded her of Hayward Willis for a fleeting moment. Maybelle knew at once that it was Blake.

"Here's what we're going to do," He said, coming into Maybelle's view. His face looked young, but his hair was peppered with greying strands, "You're going to put your hands on your head, and my men will confiscate your weapons. We got a deal? Yes, we do. And if we don't, my men will kill you. And if they couldn't, the police will. They're on their way." He finished his speech with a satisfied chuckle.

Two men moved around her and stood behind Jacob, tearing him from the door and taking his hands to lace around his head. They patted down his bloody coat, extracting weapons and other objects whenever they found a suspicious bump. The barrel at her head shifted and inquisitive hands slid down her waist almost sensually, the guard tore the dagger out of its sheath, she heard its clank upon wood. The two men kept examining Jacob for hazards.

"May, hold your breath." It was a whisper from Jacob, but Maybelle couldn't process his command quickly enough, and because of that, she lost all control.

Jacob punched at the men holding him, freeing himself. A man behind Maybelle tried to shoot him, but his bullet lodged itself into the door. With almost undetectable speed, Jacob released a small, metallic ball from his hand, and the hallway filled with orange mist. Maybelle breathed in, tasting the tanginess in the air that she remembered from an incident nights ago. Everyone but Jacob fell, some against the walls, some on the floor, all screaming from an unseen threat, an undiscovered injury. Maybelle was with them, seeing visions of the crystal tower, her blood draining as her foot slid down the spike. She closed her eyes, her cries joining the others until the noise merged into one. Not again, not the vision, not again.

The shrieking men were silenced, one by one, until she was the only one squirming against the faux pain. Someone put his hands under her arms, pulling her away from the hallway. She writhed, her arms flailing to strike at the menace.

"May, it's okay. It's Jacob." He was gentle, his hand under her chin and another in her hair as her head laid on his thigh. She opened her eyes and saw his face, but behind him was a figure. The physique of the woman was made from pure, blinding light. White and glowing, chasing the endless darkness until everything was bleached. She looked at Maybelle with her hollow eyes, her featureless face, her flowing robes. Her snowy hand reached up with an arm, a stump. Black blood was dripping from the still open wound. The world faded from Maybelle's vision, and when it came back, she found Jacob's gaze.

"I told you to hold your breath, you stubborn little cat." He purred, a smile appearing on his dirtied face.

She wanted to answer him, but she was shaking. A cry escaped her lips with every breath, her chest heaved.

"The police are coming, we need to go. Come on, kitten." Jacob lifted the shivering girl to her feet, but she refused to stand on her own. Jacob groaned impatiently.

She gripped at his shoulder, her knees shaking. She felt his breath on her face, he was far too near. She parted her quivering lips, "What was that?"

"That was Blake's corpse spilling the entirety of its bladder on the wood. Poor maids. You could say he's pissed that I killed him."

She couldn't find the power to roll her eyes, "What you unleashed, what was that?"

He hummed, "Fear bomb, like that spike you pricked yourself with. Very powerful. And don't blame me for getting you poisoned along with them."

She held her breath, "I'm poisoned?!"

He sighed, "Just for a few moments. I killed them all while you were screaming your lungs off, can we go now?" He took her arm and put it around his neck, letting her lean on him. He began walking towards the staircase.

"What are we going to do? He said the police are coming." She said.

"They already came."

She remembered, "Wait! The room!" She let go of him and limped towards the hallway. She awkwardly stepped over the corpses and almost tripped and fell against the door.

"May, we don't have time!" Jacob came behind her.

"If Blake watched us as we explored his mansion and only released his ambush here, it means there's something highly secretive behind this door." She said and searched for her lockpicks, but they weren't on her. They must have fell when she was trying to survive the wreckage.

She looked back at him, "Got any?"

He rolled his eyes and moved her aside like an insolent child, he attacked the door with his side, a grunt escaping him, but it remained closed. Running his fingers through his hair, he fished for a couple lockpicks and thrust them in Maybelle's hand.

Maybelle bent and picked up her dagger, she fiddled with the door for a few seconds until it unlocked. She opened the door and walked inside, braving against whatever waited for her. It was Blake's office, poorly lit and incredibly under-furnished. The desk in the midst of the room was almost clear of any juicy documents about the Order. But a few letters did sit in the corner, weighed down with an unlit candlestick to forbid the open window from blowing them away. She moved the golden ornament and gathered the letters in her hands, pocketing them.

"Are we done here?" Jacob asked behind her.

"The desk-"

"No time." He took her hand and hurried out the office.

He practically towed her behind him until they reached the front door, but Jacob ignored it and marched to the unexplored hallway instead. His prays of finding a backdoor there were answered. He pushed through and pulled Maybelle out of the mansion, sweat mingling with dried blood, making it congeal into a black muck. He took her to the end of the garden, in the shadow of the mansion. If the grass was a _little_ untrimmed in the front, here it formed a forest. The green tendrils almost reached their knees, it would be very possible to hide inside the vegetation like rats, until the looming threat disappeared and they could flee, leaving no trace. But Jacob had different ideas. He hurried to the low fence, vaulting over it and waiting as Maybelle did the same. She tried to shake the haziness away by slapping her forehead continuously, but all she earned was a headache. She heard the whistles of policemen come from somewhere in the garden—perhaps to the west side where Jacob once hid. They must have noticed their handiwork by now, and wrote them onto the list of most wanted.

The pair rushed across the road silently, the only sounds they heard were their footsteps and the cries of the sick inside the alleys. Jacob stopped at the sidewalk and looked around, seemingly lost and itching to find a way out. He cast his eyes to the roofs, but then realized May was with him. He looked at the closed windows of the rookeries, but knew the startled families will give them away, and he hadn't the heart to threaten them at gunpoint, May knew that. A wagon appeared in the corner, a round, sleepy man driving a lone white horse. Jacob immediately attacked the wagon. Throwing the bloke onto the cobblestone and ignoring his feeble protests. Well, he did have the heart to do _that._ He waited for Maybelle to quit staring at the fleeing man and climb on.

She slid next to him, looking back at the man until he disappeared. Jacob spooked the living soul out of the poor bastard—the man escaped like a deer in a hunting tournament.

"Did you have to steal it from him?" She said as Jacob urged the horse into a gallop.

"No, I should have told him—sir, oh kind sir, why don't you take us to Whitechapel as we sit in the back and sample some of your beer while police is on our tail?" He glowered and nodded to the barrels full of unidentified contents.

"Maybe we could have just… walked, or lost them in some alleyway."

He clicked his tongue, but the horse thought the sound was for it, so it hurried, "Too much trouble."

As Jacob drove out the street, the mansion disappearing behind the rookeries and the closed shops, Maybelle thought they were clear. But as Jacob drove across Finsbury, Maybelle heard a commotion over the rhythmic strides of the horse. She dared to look back, and noticed the brightness of a lantern that lit the frame of an approaching wagon. It was still distant, but the two horses worked hard to get it to catch up.

"Jacob! They're chasing us!" She poked his arm as if he wasn't paying attention.

He glanced away from the road, and at the wagon behind them. He scowled, but was generally unfazed, "They caught up, take the reins." He threw them in her hands.

"What? Where to?" She struggled to keep her focus on the road. The horse veered to the side, she tugged left until the wagon righted.

"Wherever, just give me time." He hopped to the back of the wagon, leaving her driving towards an unknown destination. Her back was exposed to whoever wanted to shoot it. She cursed under her breath, she wasn't sure she was allowed to look back.

She heard gunshots, and the neighs of a startled horse. Their own white galloped faster, racing the wind. The road was ending in a turn, Maybelle pulled slightly and made the horse take a left.

"Hurry up!" She shouted, careful not to bump into a lamppost and ruin everyone's night. She heard another gunshot.

"Alright, if that's the way you want to play. You prick." Jacob said. Maybelle could hear the slightest whisper of something sharp, like the sting of a bee, or the hiss of a needle as it cut the air. She heard a horse whinny, and the police's wagon crash into stone. Jacob hopped back beside her, stealing the reins.

"What did you do?" She looked back immediately, noting the destruction the startled horse caused. The wagon was thrown upside-down, the wheel still turning.

"I put something in the horse's bloodstream, that's all." He said blandly.

"What? From this distance?"

"I'll explain later." He stopped talking, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked into space and let the horse drive wherever it wanted, "I'm thinking the flat is too dangerous, since we have the police after us. They could only ask around to find the flat."

"What? You bought the flat in your name, why?" She thought a gang leader would be more secretive.

"Because I want my sister to find me when she comes home." His voice was laced with longing, but his expression gave away nothing.

Maybelle bit her lip, straightening herself, "Do you miss her?"

He narrowed his eyes at the road, his chest heaving, "I think anyone would miss their sibling when they leave them, don't you?" He asked, turning to look at her pointedly when he reached the question.

She blinked. Yes, she missed her sister dearly, no matter how much the older woman hated her—and she knew her sister hated her—she still ached to see her. She laid awake at night, thinking of her round face, her grey eyes that reminded her of a cloudy day, of silver pearls. She missed her.

"I'm sorry for asking, it was stupid." She peered at the moving landscape.

His voice was calmer, "No, it was not stupid. It was just a bit intrusive, I don't like that. I try to keep everything about my personal life secret."

She dared to ask, "Is it just about me?"

He lightly shook his head, "No, I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. But I would be especially careful when I'm with you." He refused to look at her.

Maybelle's nostrils flared, "Are you joking?! I put my life in danger out there, to protect you, to make sure you're not dead!"

"No, you were looking for the artifact. And it's not in there, remember that. Remember that we have a long way to go before you get some insufferable jewellery to match your personality."

She laughed humorlessly, "Every time I look at you, the appeal of taking that road alone becomes better and better."

He wheeled at her, shouting above the wind, "Then jump off! Jump of right now and go look for the damn thing alone! I'll give you a couple of days before a Rook carries your battered, lifeless body back to me."

"Would you have killed Blake without my help in the garden, Frye? I don't think so."

"You were more of a liability than anything. Inhaling the bomb's smoke like cannabis when I told you to keep your breath held." He was visibly annoyed, and his hands gripped the reins tight.

"Oh, I wasn't aware that you were going to unleash one of your murderous instruments, you lout." She scooted to the edge of the seat, away from his aura.

"Of course, that is what I should expect of a woman that pricks her damn self with a dangerous-looking spike…"

He was speaking as if she wasn't there. She _hated_ that. At least Stocker was subtle, with his vague, seething comments that were clearly aimed at her when the ruse of generalization faded.

She tried to calm her tone, "Once again, I didn't know I was dealing with a snake."

"You better mean my liking for poisoned tips, and not myself," He glared, then swallowed, "You speak of the stuff as if it isn't the best weapon you've ever seen." He smirked.

"I'm not much of a fan for weapons."

"You're only a fan of gold." He pulled the stolen watch out of his coat, glancing at it then getting back to the road, "Since it's dark, and its Saturday, we'll find them lurking in the Strand."

"Who are you talking about?" She asked, her voice weak.

"You'll see."


	13. Chapter 13

Jacob took her to the Strand, babbling about having to leave the carriage soon to continue on foot. He stopped at an area that seemed known to him. An inn was to their side, lit by candles and warmly beckoning. Jacob hopped down and gestured to her. She reluctantly obeyed, leaving the comfort of her seat and the faint smell of booze coming from the wagon's heavy cargo. Jacob hurried across the road until he left it, feet crunching as he walked on dirt and grass, then he reached a railway and stood in the midst of it like a madman.

Maybelle stood at a safe distance, panting, "What the hell are you doing? You'll get yourself killed."

"You'd like that, won't you?" He asked, then peering into the darkness, mumbling to himself, "They should be there any minute now, that's usually the case if they haven't changed their schedule from what I recall, or something like it."

"Jacob, what are you talking about? Are you waiting for the train? Why don't you wait like normal people, in the station?" She folded her arms and followed his gaze into the shady horizon.

"You of all people know that I ain't normal, kitten." His eyes narrowed at the railway, looking for any movement.

"Why the train? Where are you taking me? Are we leaving London?" She found herself despising the idea of leaving the city—she still had work to do, and the map was in London, back at the flat.

"We're visiting some old friends, in a place that we could hide in for a very long time."

She was intrigued, "Is it away from here?"

"Here? You mean the Strand? Well… not precisely, it's here, and also everywhere."

Her brow lifted, "Jacob, what are you saying? Did someone kick you in the head? You don't exactly look untouched…" She pointed at his bloody clothing.

"You'll see what I mean." He dismissed with a wave of his hand, stepping out of the tracks.

The oddly-matched pair waited at the railway, one with a sceptical look upon her face, as well as exhaustion, and another with staggering impatience. Jacob tapped his foot on the dirt and looked at his watch again. It was steel, rather than silver like his original one. She wondered if he would let her keep it, or maybe snatch it from her chest as she slept.

Minutes later, the ground began shaking, tiny pebbles bouncing in all directions, signalling the approaching locomotive. The headlights were almost blinding, tearing across the shadows and making her squint and shield her face.

"When I tell you to jump, you jump!" Jacob said above the roar of the metallic wheels. She gasped and looked at him through the brightness.

"What? Are you serious?"

"Don't you trust me?" He asked, amused.

Maybelle chuckled, "No, I don't. Do you look like someone I could place my trust in?"

"You wound me," He put his hand on her shoulder, "Listen, you have to jump on. When I tell you to jump, do it."

She shook her head, "You're mad, I don't listen to madmen."

He removed his hand, "No matter how mad I get, I won't win against you, kitten. Now say yes."

"Yes what?"

He sighed. The train almost reached them, "Yes I will jump,"

"No I won't jump."

"Then I'll leave you and you won't even smell the chance of getting the gauntlet ever again."

She grumbled, her hands forming fists. She kicked at a rock that was by her foot, "Fine, you prick."

He chuckled, but his voice was lost as the train reached them. It flitted past, lights flashing in their eyes and on their faces as each carriage passed them. Jacob's eyes followed each carriage, looking for the best chance. Once he found it, his eyes widened and he said, "Jump!"

She followed blindly, leaping in the air with her hands in front of her, ready to grasp at any ledge. She found herself on the platform outside one carriage, Jacob was on the other. The train moved at its quick pace, carrying them away from the area. Maybelle laughed, bending over and staring at the ground as it flew past, the train rousing grit up in its wake.

"Is this your train?" She asked.

Jacob smoothed over his clothes, "It was mine and Evie's, now I don't visit as much as I'd like."

"And why is that?"

He shrugged, "It gets tiring, have you ever lived on a train before? Not slept a couple days in as you waited to reach another district, but _lived._ You get motion-sickness for the rest of your life." He turned a little green at the sides.

Maybelle held on a bar of painted metal adorning the entrance to the carriage, as she listened to the train's wheels and the distant huff of its whistle. A yell that pierced the silence of the night.

"This is what one gets for trusting me—eternal happiness. And the chance to see another day." Jacob said, exhaling contently.

She stood, "Don't get too cocky, Frye. A second late and you would've had to peel me off the side of the carriage."

"But you jumped exactly when I told you. Look at you, such a good girl." He leaped across the gap to join her, then opened the door to the carriage and got in. Maybelle followed him with interest.

Inside was a bar, but it was rather well-designed and served its purpose well for a train carriage. A lean man was on the right, tending to a worn counter, serving beer into a tankard for a woman with pixie-short hair and wearing the Rook's green. The shelves behind him were rather under-stocked, but still had the basics—gin for a good night's sleep, whisky, cherry for the taste. On the left were a couple of tables and chairs, unoccupied but cluttered with the items of those who were recently there—yesterday's newspaper, a couple of letters, two empty tankards. A withered red flower, a pipe. Is it filled with opium? Her mind wondered.

"Oi! Jacob! What a surprise!" The lean man said excitedly, stowing the empty bottle somewhere below, "You look a mess, man!"

"Hello, Calvin. Haven't slept yet? The night shift becomes boring after midnight." Jacob said, taking a seat next to the blonde woman, giving her a quick smile, "Got any whisky? Someone got me good and my bones are killing me."

"Coming right up," Calvin searched briskly for the bottle of golden alcohol, and turned to pour it into a glass. Jacob stopped him with a wave.

"I'll drink it straight. Goodness knows this piss is not drinkable. I'm the only one who dares to try it." He opened the half-filled bottle and took a large gulp, releasing a sharp sigh after.

Maybelle grew tired of the train's movement, making her feel as unstable as when she stood in her nest hours ago. She took a seat on the chair and glanced at the open literature and the open pouch in front of her. The pouch held pencils and two pieces of hard candy.

Calvin leaned on the bar, looking Jacob in the eye, "Where have you been? It's been months, man."

Jacob swallowed a mouthful of whisky, "Here and there, was working with the gang and a couple other projects."

Calvin hummed, "Then I suppose I shouldn't pry. But I bet it was something interesting."

The blonde sipped her beer, then snorted, "You won't believe, he took us many places."

The poor bartender looked torn between rudely imploring or leaving the subject aside, "Like where?"

"London." Jacob said, hiding his chuckle with a quick gulp.

Calvin gave the two a dirty look, "Yeah, play with me, toss me around and laugh. You won't be laughin' when I tell you there's piss in your booze."

The blonde choked, coughed, and sprays of the liquid landed on the bar, "That's disgusting, Calvin. You know how I feel about such gruesome details."

Calvin pursed his pale lips, "I haven't even begun with details, birdie."

Jacob kept swallowing down the whisky, unfazed, "To be fair, my booze _is_ piss. Looks and tastes like it."

Calvin shook his head, glancing at the nearly-empty shelf, "Not my problem, supplies have been rough, man. If you were around, you would fix it."

"Haven't Will been helping you?" Jacob studied the contents of his bottle as if a treasure rested at the bottom, "I can't be everywhere, you know. What about Agnes?"

Calvin looked around cautiously, as if checking for someone's presence, "Will is… he won't help me with such mundane nonsense, man. You know it."

The blonde eyed her beer in distaste, "Will won't help with anything at all."

Jacob barely looked at her, "That's not true. He was doing missions for me when I asked him to, that's good enough for me."

"Aye, but…" Calvin averted his eyes, "It's hard livin' with a man who won't help in the slightest. He won't even clean his carriage, for gods' sake."

The blonde produced an 'Are you serious?' look, " _You_ don't clean after yourself either."

"Why're you mad about that, do you clean it for me?" He then tapped the bar, "I help with this, isn't that enough? I can't see you survivin' without at least the whiff of alcohol every night."

A smile appeared, "You're right, Calvin. You're the best. You're the beast."

Calvin smirked, then looked at Maybelle, "Who's that, Jacob? One of your lady friends?"

"Lady friends?" Jacob snorted, clearing his throat, "She and I have a… deal. But not what you're thinking…"

"Ugh," Maybelle visibly shuddered, "Let me help you with this." She stood from her chair and nearly fell as she made her way to the bar, "My name is Maybelle, it's nice meeting you."

"Likewise," He grinned, "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, I don't partake. Thank you."

Calvin pouted, "Then I suppose I can offer you nothing else, you see, this is my skillset."

Maybelle nodded, "Unless you're looking for a sniper, I can't help you with anything else either."

Calvin laughed. Jacob finished drinking his whisky and pushed a nearly-empty bottle towards the young bartender. Calvin gave him a too-close onceover, checking for drunkenness.

"Are you oiled, Jacob? We need your wits about you when you reunite with the team."

His hazel eyes disappeared behind his lids, "I'm fine, but I need to get these bloody clothes off me and go to sleep."

"Alcohol's already working, huh?" The blonde said, nudging him. He ignored her and practically hobbled towards the end of the carriage.

Maybelle sat in his place, which was awkwardly warm. She was in no hurry to leave, but she needed to know, "What about me?"

Jacob didn't stop, waving dismissively with his chin against his chest, "Calvin will find you a place to sleep, or you could sleep on my couch, I don't care right now." He opened the carriage door and wobbled out, skipping over the gap. The door drew as much as its hinges could allow, then bounced back and slammed.

Calvin chuckled, "Quite the piece of work, ain't he?"

Maybelle looked at him, studying his features up-close. His small eyes and his long lips did nothing to make him look more mature, the man had a baby face under all that stubble. His brown cap sat loosely on his head. And the combed hair beneath was slightly oily.

"He's… something." Maybelle couldn't describe Jacob or give an opinion about him, even if she sat cross-legged with a notebook in her lap for an hour, chewing on a pencil. He was good to her, but he was also pretty damn nasty, and there was no warning when he shifted from one attitude to the next. It was both confusing and frustrating.

The blonde giggled, nudging her with an elbow, "He's more than that, have you seen what's under those clothes? I snuck in once and saw him training in the cellar, that man is built like one of those ancient hero statues, I tell you."

Maybelle cleared her throat, seriously contemplating about taking a sip of something strong. She did not care what lurked beneath the black, and certainly didn't want to hear about the blonde's enthusiasm.

But she kept talking, "I hear he doesn't go much to brothels, or at least, unclean ones. Makes him more attractive since he won't have one of those dreadful diseases. Imagine if I undressed him and found that he had syphilis-"

"Okay! I heard enough." Maybelle's cheeks were burning with embarrassment. Calvin laughed at them.

"Our Jessamine is a church-bell when it comes to men, but she's a good lass. Ain't ya?" Calvin pinched the blonde's cheeks. She shied away.

"I can say that I'm the complete opposite, which is why I feel uncomfortable." Maybelle admitted.

Jessamine nudged her, "Don't worry, it's not for everyone. But love is an art."

Maybelle eyed her, "Really? You think it's an art?"

"That's what my madam told me, you know, before I was in the gang." She lifted an elegantly-groomed brow, waiting for a reaction.

Maybelle was taken aback, "You were a…"

"Prostitute?" She said confidently, "Yes, and I don't regret it. What I do regret is seeing my friends die of diseases that came to them through creepy-looking fellows. When I had my fill of mourning, I left."

"I suppose Jacob found you, then?"

She shook her head, "Rather, I found him. I looked at him and the sly bastard pretended he wasn't looking back. He came to me and we walked a-ways. Then he offered me a job. I said yes. Then another job. I was hesitant, but I said yes. And now, I'm here."

Maybelle lifted her brows, "That's… interesting."

"What about you, what's your story?"

"Me? I'm no one special…"

"Everyone is special in their own way, dove." She winked. What's up with this gang and birds?

Maybelle shrugged, "Nothing, I… I'm good with guns, and Jacob _found_ me. There's a mutual goal we're after, so naturally, we are working together."

"I see," She stared at her beer, "Have you met any of the other folks? Agnes, Bob, Will? Oh, you have to see Will, he's handsome, but… I wouldn't get too close. That man frightens me, but I also want to approach him. He makes it hard."

"Whose Will?"

"He helps Jacob with mission stuff," She took a sip of beer, "You'll meet him soon enough, he comes here at midnight to underline segments from his books. Don't know what he's doing, so don't ask me." Jessamine nudged her, "But don't ask him either, he'll stab you. Possibly."

"I don't plan on asking him…"

"Don't." She gulped her beer.

Maybelle's eyes were drooping, and Calvin noticed, "If you want to sleep, I could pull out a blanket for you and lay it over Jacob's couch. It gets chilly when there's no fire."

"That would be good, yes." Maybelle nodded.

"Right then," He left the bar and went out the door Jacob and her entered from earlier, Maybelle stood and followed.

He took her across the carriages until they ended up in a cluttered carriage. It gave off a parlour vibe, but it also had a desk and a small library. Her makeshift bed waited for her, filled with pillows like the sofa Jacob kept in his flat. She plopped down and let her neck fall back.

"I'll get you a blanket, wait here." Calvin departed through the same door, leaving her in solitude. At least… that's what she thought.

The door to her left opened, and in walked a man with five-o'clock-shadow, blueish eyes, and a wrinkle practically carved between his brows. His eyebrows were thick, but well-groomed, and his hair was tousled, thick lips forming a worried line. The man moved his steely eyes to her, his scowl deepening. He looked her up and down, assessing her in thirty different ways.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was smooth, like honey. But the bleakness of it made her sit up.

"My name's Maybelle."

"Did I ask for your name, miss?" He approached like a wolf, slow and calculated. May barely heard his footsteps. He viewed her as a threat, "What are you doing on this train?"

She held up her hands, "Relax, I'm Jacob's... associate."

He let his eyes roam, Maybelle wanted to hide from his gaze, "Associate? He brings a lot of these here." His statement held undertones Maybelle didn't like.

"I don't think you know what an associate is…"

He ignored her, but his stance quickly softened, "I ought to tell him to stop picking up people from the streets to give them a home. This place is occupied; I should tell him. Because it certainly is."

She looked around, itching her cheek, "I'm sorry, is this your room?"

He looked away, his expression stoic, "No, it's everyone's. But you're not one of us. This train barely has the breathing space for the current residents."

She swallowed, feeling threatened. But she found his hostility annoying, "I suppose you're Will."

The tall man moved to the desk, searching among the papers, "I don't want to know how you guessed, but you guessed right."

"I guessed right because someone told me you'd be a prick." She mentally kicked herself for that.

The rustling stopped, for a moment Maybelle remembered Jessamine's tip about being careful around this guy. Thankfully, he finally said, "And who would that be, I wonder?" He asked coldly, his pale hand going up to slowly ruffle his hair rather than fix it.

"That's… not important."

His sigh was quiet, he sat on the cushioned chair, taking the pen from its inkwell and studying the realm of papers as if he was memorizing a map, "I was told I'm a prick by many people, but that doesn't mean it would change my attitude. Doesn't mean there's something wrong with it as well."

Maybelle scoffed, and Will eyed her with annoyance, "So, collective opinion means nothing to you, then? Huh."

"People talk, they give their opinion when it's not needed. Why should I trust their judgement? I made it this far without listening to them, and I'm still alive, with barely any scars. Why should I start listening to them now?" He picked up a paper and held it close to the lantern before him. The blank paper heated, and gradually, the notes of a spy appeared like magic, filling the whiteness.

Maybelle massaged her fingers, "Because life is filled with people, and our times demand you listen to them."

He gave her a look, and Maybelle could've sworn she saw his lips quirk up. But it was definitely in mockery, so it offered no satisfaction.

"Think what you want, I'll be here doing what actually matters." He scribbled something onto a random paper.

"What is it that you do here, anyway?"

"Basically, I replace Henry Green. But what separates me from that meater is that I'm not afraid of _field work_ , as he puts it."

"Ohhh, so bricky of you. What did Henry do, though?"

Will exhaled, rising slightly to fetch a small, grey pouch from a cabinet overhead. He took a piece of candy from the pouch and placed it delicately in his mouth, savouring the taste as he stared at the wall. Maybelle had to scratch her head in wonder.

He tongued the candy to his cheek, "I see that you're not informed about our previous members, that might mean you're new. Or it might just mean that you're not affiliated with us." He moved the candy around his mouth, it clinked against his teeth.

"Oh, yeah. With your group… whatever that is."

"Henry maintained connections, and he provided the twins with information… Don't tell me you don't know Evie, as well?" He ogled her.

"I know her, but not personally…"

The door opened, and warmth escaped the carriage. Calvin walked in, a thick, colourful blanket adorning one arm. Around the other coiled a bouncy fabric Maybelle recognized, a sleeping gown. He handed the items to Maybelle.

"Sorry, couldn't find a less flashy one, lass." He glanced at Will.

Maybelle shrugged, "It's alright."

Calvin left immediately.

"So, basically, you're a spy?" She asked the busy man.

"I'm the spymaster, but I'm also Jacob's right hand, when he needs one. He's rather independent. Can't say I blame him much."

"I envy you two—you have the ability to work on your own. I can't take a single step towards a goal without the help of someone. For as long as I can remember, I was always part of a team."

"Perhaps that's incompetence on your part, dziewczyna."

She thought she heard wrong, "What? What did you call me?"

"Girl."

She narrowed her eyes, "What's that?"

He sighed, "A girl is a female human…"

She grumbled, "No, this language, what is it?"

He paused, sucking on his precious candy, "It's Polish."

He's Polish? His accent was impeccably English, odd. She ignored him, remembering the bulge in her coat. She took the papers out of her pocket as she walked to the desk. She tossed the papers over Will's documents, he eyed her dangerously.

"Here you go, _spymaster_. We recovered these from our mission, treat them well because I literally crawled to gather them." His scowl was even deeper up close. Maybelle was sure an iron wouldn't be able to flatten it.

His eyes didn't blink for most of the time he looked at her, "I'll look into them." He opened the drawer, which was full of knick-knacks, and swept the info onto the mess. He slammed the drawer shut and continued marking his papers.

Maybelle rolled her eyes, refusing to point his obvious lack of care for such precious letters. She was certain her haul was infinitely more paramount than his. She went back to her couch, and took a good look at her ruined outfit. The black at her sleeves became white with dust, and on other areas blood mingled with the fabric, almost invisible. It smelled horrible, like acid and rust combined, but Maybelle couldn't find the privacy to change into the nightgown. She removed her coat and tossed it over the sofa's back. She unfolded her blanket and laid, covering herself. Her feet were still warmed by her muddy shoes.

"Good evening." She said, waiting for him to react.

He didn't. His fingers scribbled slowly over the papers, going from one to another. His sullen mien never melted. He was a scribe, copying the secrets of history. He was a scientist, appreciating the notes of a successful experiment. He studied the papers as if they were an ageless tale of fantasy. Maybelle could find his dedication fascinating, that is, if he wasn't such a jerk.

* * *

 **I love Will as much as I hate him. But he's so badass :p**

 **Sorry if any translation is wrong.**


	14. Chapter 14

When she woke, the first thing she sensed was the high sun. The light filtered through the thin film of dust on the window above her. Finally, a sunny day. Spring was coming to an end, but this was London, so the drizzles were simply further apart.

Maybelle stirred, stretching as she lay on the cushions. She instantly regretted that when her bones ached and bruises began pounding painfully. She stopped mid-stretch and groaned. More importantly, she still smelled blood and brain matter on her shirt, and on the coat hanging above her. The blood dried nicely in the warmth, now it would be redundant to try to wash it. Perhaps she would buy second-hand clothes with the change left in her pocket.

She sat up, noticing how the embroidery on her waistcoat imprinted on her flesh, the pattern coloured pink, itchy. She massaged her hands and looked around.

She expected to find Will, still scribbling, the dark halos under his eyes even darker. He wasn't there, but he wasn't a dream or a hallucination either. The desk was still rife with his documents. A lone candle loomed above them in its candlestick, halfway burned, the wax had dripped on the wood, fixing the papers to it until not even wind tried to move them. Maybelle rose and looked at them. Most of them were letters from Will's spy network describing the status-quo. Things that one could read in the daily newspaper or hear from a barkeep. Perhaps Will's occupation wasn't as prestigious and daunting as she thought. She peeked into the parcel Will kept his candies in, but it was empty. May was sure she heard the parcel clinking with a dozen sweets last night. The man might lose his last tooth in two years.

When she had enough of spying on spymasters, she exited the carriage through the left door, the itch to see what's behind it almost unbearable. Since she was too exhausted to explore the night before. She hopped the gap and walked in. Jacob was standing by a faintly lit fireplace, studying a leather-bound journal as he leaned on the wall. His bed was already made. She had clearly overslept.

He looked up, his demeanour changing once he saw her. He had a smile on his face, but it changed into a sour frown. His hands twitched, as if he wanted to slam his journal shut, but he didn't.

"How did you find this carriage?" He asked.

"Good morning to you too, Frye." A green apple usurped her attention, peeking up from a glass bowl. She took it and munched away, "I wasn't aware that you considered this train a maze."

Jacob sighed, his eyes to the journal once more, "Sorry, I'm feeling low."

"What is it, the injuries, or the hangover?" She chewed the tangy, crispy bits.

He was momentarily baffled, "What? No, I've had worse," He scoffed, "The spies have been slow. I got a letter from Jude, he told me he has yet to locate one of our men."

"Be easy on the bloke, we've just killed a man he marked for us."

He shrugged, slamming his book shut, "That's not enough. I need targets, and they aren't working as fast as I'd like. If we wait any longer, they will find a way to bypass the need for the map, and we'll have nothing to do." He walked away and laid the book on a tidy desk, she guessed it was his.

"Is that possible, the Order finding a way?"

He sighed, giving her a bored look, "You have no idea what those pricks will do to get what they want. I'm afraid if I kill all of your uncle's henchmen, he will recruit monkeys instead. Or worse, one of his guards."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Don't give me that look. If Willis thinks his bodyguards are well-trained, then he is impossibly stupid, way beyond what I imagined when I first learned of him."

She smiled bitterly, "You fail to recognize that I am… _was_ , one of his bodyguards."

"No, I don't. You might be the woman to win a gun duel, but what if you were born ten centuries before? Would you be able to wield a blade the same way you wield a rifle?" He raised his brows, rearranging his stacks of nameless old books.

"If I was born ten centuries ago, I wouldn't have to hold any kind of weapon. In fact, give me fifty years before or after, and I'd be a faceless woman inside a diligent crowd."

He looked at her, "And would you prefer that? Being one of the many women who do nothing but live like a woman _should_?"

She thought about it, biting into her apple. When a woman is born into this time, she lives two decades until a man gives her two jobs- attending to him, and attending to his children. If Maybelle did one thing right, it was subverting that inevitability. She couldn't see herself crouching by an oven, or worse—hunching over an open fire until her eyebrows faded. The image of her holding a child on each arm, answering to her husband's needs, barefoot, was not one she found amusing. Much less find it possible to come true.

She shrugged, "I don't know. I should, shouldn't I? That's what everyone wants us delicate flowers to do so."

"Why do you care what everyone thinks?" He asked, his tone soft, as if he knew questioning her behaviour is somewhat meaningless.

Whatever alliance Jacob and Will shared, it sure made them as free as possible from opinions, "Because if I didn't, someone would throw me into Devil's Acre."

Jacob laughed quietly, "I've been there, nothing's wrong with that place."

"That's coming from someone who lived in squalor akin to it for most of his life." She knew it was wrong of her to assume, but he was not the one who lived in the shadow of such a place. Sometimes the squad passed by the damn slum, but the smell of cheap whores, intoxication, and sewage wafted around them two blocks away.

He glared at her, something she expected him to do, "Why would you think I've lived in the slums? Is it because I live in Whitechapel? For your knowledge, I wasn't even born in London."

She put her apple on the small table, "No, I said so because you share many characteristics with those who call such revolting stretches home. Could you tell me what sort of folks reside in Devil's Acre? Could you tell me what they do on a daily basis?"

"They are nothing like me, and I am _nothing_ like them."

"Oh? Because you work for a higher cause, or because you give a penny to the poor when you ain't stealing from the rich? Maybe you've studied my country's legends a bit too zealously."

He pushed himself off the desk and marched towards her. He stopped when he was in his favoured intimidating position, "Don't try speaking about me without knowing the slightest, May. I _will_ make you regret it."

Her voice was soft, but not out of fear, "Then tell me what you really are. Not who you stand for, but what you are, what you _really_ are."

His eye twitched, "I'm not telling you anything, and don't try to share something out of your own history, as if it's some trade. Don't, May."

She backed away, her back hitting the table, "Why? Why is it that you're so goddamn unapproachable? Tell me!"

"I don't trust your _kind_!" He said it as if her kind was an abomination, a foul thing born to be hunted.

"What do you mean, my kind? What's so wrong about my kind?!" She yelled back.

"You-" He clenched his teeth, turning away to smooth over his hair, "Your uncle is vying to control London, like those before him, and those after him, spanning centuries and centuries of horrible pain and suffering for everyone, and you're still wondering what's the problem with your kind?"

"Wait," She exhaled, pinching her bridge, "You're talking about Hayward, I don't have anything to do with the bastard anymore."

He lowered his voice, "I don't take your word for it. After all, what did words ever do?"

"So, you're afraid I'll steal your map and go back to him? He'll decapitate me and take the map for himself. He wouldn't let a measly old scallywag like me join him on his fascinating discoveries."

"Then you should be thankful there's someone who would." He said, moving back to his desk and fiddling with his journal again. He cursed under his breath and pulled the tucked-in chair to rest.

She reached for her apple, which was browning already. She let her mind wander and began to view the city as the train passed by. The Thames beamed at her with its murky sparkles, a dead but still-living serpent that was beautiful in its own way. She opened the door and threw the core away, when she leaned back in, Will had walked in with a letter in his hand. She closed the door and watched him, he barely looked at her.

"Jacob, letter from Jude. It said he wanted an urgent meeting. Read it." The spymaster slapped the opened letter on Jacob's journal, giving him a tiny smile.

Jacob raised a brow and read the letter, his eyes quickly moving. He grunted and put the letter on a growing mountain of them, "He says he wants to meet me in Copper's Bookkeeping. Does he hate the weather, or did the wife think he was seeing another in Southwark?"

Will frowned, his default expression, "Haven't seen him, one of the lads brought this to me. He said Jude was… somewhat off."

"What does that even mean?"

Will sighed, "Doesn't matter, go see what the man wants," He looked at Maybelle with a hint of distaste, "Take this one with you. I know you'll tell me to keep an eye on her, if you don't pull her along. I'm not chaperoning one of your whores, Frye."

Maybelle's jaw fell, "What?! I'm not one of his whores! Didn't I tell you I'm his associate?"

"Yes, does that change anything? Same thing." His eyes gave no impression.

Jacob eyed Maybelle, almost ready to yawn, "She's helping with the gauntlet."

"No… side missions?" Will quipped.

"Not this time." They smiled together at some inside joke. Maybelle rolled her eyes and looked away.

Will ruffled his own hair and glanced at Jacob, "Anything else? I have some work to do."

"Eager to hop back to your books, eh? It's alright, I got it."

Will shrugged, conflicted between arguing and going. But he left after a few seconds, letting fresh air enter the carriage as he left. Maybelle breathed in.

"So, you're taking me along?" She aimed a side-eye to his hunched over form.

"Unfortunately," He picked the letter up again, "We'll leave at the next stop, that'll give you some time to get ready. Talk to Calvin for breakfast. He might not give you much, but he cooks well."

"Can I ask you something first?"

He sighed, but said, "Yes?"

"I saw a board in the other carriage, someone's a news clippings hoarder, Frye?"

"I prefer beer recipes," He said, then paused with words stuck in his throat, "We used it for… planning, things like that."

"You and Will?"

His voice was soft, reminiscent, "Evie and I."

As of then, the board was clear—a brown, scratchy surface someone tried to cover with newspaper, but abandoned the idea when they saw, halfway through, how badly it fitted with the décor. She imagined the siblings squabbling at the board, arguing about what to do next. Or perhaps smiling as they both picked the same path. Maybelle didn't know the nature of their relationship, and she was certain Jacob wouldn't let her close enough to find out. So, she dropped the subject and made her way out of Jacob's carriage, the notion of food appealing to her as if she was a ravenous wolf.

* * *

Southwark. The belly of economy in London, and so, all of Europe. It was not the first time Maybelle laid eyes on it, and it won't be the last time. Something told her the Rook's involvement with the borough will have her come here as many times as Jacob needed.

After leaving the station, they took an omnibus to Crampton Street, passing by St George's Circus. Jacob pointed to the obelisk, describing its fame, until Maybelle told him she wasn't a tourist. They walked then, under the beautiful rays that intertwined with short, temperate winds. They arrived at Crampton Street, and Jacob nodded to a small building, Sogaard's Bookkeeping Co.

"This is what he chose, I suppose the man loves a good financial advice?" Jacob said, ogling the building with a troubled look.

Maybelle shrugged, "Let's see what he got in store, Frye. The letter was alarming, he might have something to say."

He waved forwards, grinning like someone who wants to win the elections, "After you, then."

They entered the building, welcomed by a fire that intensified the natural warmth of the day. There were two big rooms, lines of desks filling them. The accountants waited behind their desks for someone to come with a business deal, or for the receptionist to arrange a deal for them. They chatted among themselves, the fumes of their jasmine teas misting in the daylight. They barely looked up as the pair climbed to the second story, hurried through a corridor, and stopped at an open room not unlike the ones below. Fresh air was more evident here, since most of the windows were opened, the small curtains whipping, riding the wind.

He knocked at the doorframe of the smaller room, moving inside as he wore a quick smile. He ignored the accountants who looked up and surveyed the windy chamber for his spy.

Jacob shrugged, looked at Maybelle, "He said to find the second room on the second level."

"Perhaps he's using the street privy?" Maybelle walked in and sat on a chair beside the fireplace. She wasn't cold, but the flame was certainly inviting. She sighed as the warmth lingered on her thighs.

"I think he'll hold it in—considering what I've read…"

She nodded. She had the chance to read some parts of the letter when Will and Jacob had their backs turned, conversing about mission mumbo-jumbo. She could see the panic in the way the man's hand jittered as he wrote, producing scraggly handwriting, most of it hard to read.

The room smelled of new and old, the new coming from the receipts and folders stacked on the many desks, the old coming from the wall of archives, sorted by name. Maybelle scuffed her boot along the bed of ash that gathered by the hearth, watching as it blackened the pale tiles. Her muscles and joints ached dully, she knew it was high time she had some Opium placed in her pocket.

"What are you doing?" Jacob asked, avoiding the glare of the room's inhabitants.

"Waiting. Do tell me when he shows up."

He snorted, "You're not too enthusiastic when it isn't about your artifact, are you?"

She raised a thin brow, "Should I?"

"I suppose not."

One bookkeeper finished eyeing them irritably, "Oi, do you have business in this room? Can I help you in some way?"

Jacob held up his hands, "Relax, mate. We're here to meet an old friend, I bet he told you about us."

The accountant clutched the cap on his desk, and drew it closer to him, almost protectively. He narrowed his eyes in study, "Would he be a… Mr. Reid?"

Jacob smiled, "The one."

"I'm afraid you got the wrong room, he's waiting in the other one. Paid the receptionist a great sum, he did. But I'm afraid you'd have to hurry just the same."

Jacob shrugged, his lips pressing together. He gestured to Maybelle to come. She reluctantly left the lovely fire and hurried after him.

They made their way to a third room, smaller than the rest, as if for private appointments between blokes who had a business deal. Jacob knocked at the closed door, leaning in to listen.

"W-who's that?" It was Jude. Maybelle recognized the throaty voice almost immediately, but it was positively jittery, this time.

"Mr. Reid, Canterbury Delight." Jacob spoke the words as if they meant something, but they left Maybelle confused. Has she heard them before?

"Jacob, come in. Quick."

The gang leader walked in, cracking a smile to a tense-looking Jude, "Had too much bacon?"

Jude scowled and sank deeper in his chair, folding his hands on the table in front of him. He nodded briskly to the empty chair across, his eyes roaming the green curtains that covered a large window. Jacob took a seat and raised his brows at the spy, expecting him to start talking. Maybelle closed the door and looked around the crammed room. It was stifled, stale air almost suffocating her, Jude's mysterious anxiety poisoning the atmosphere with dread.

Jacob leaned forward, looking into the man's downcast eyes, "What is it? I got your letter, is there something I should know?"

Jude's eyes widened, his chapped lips opening to speak, then closing, then doing it a second and a third time, "There is, yes."

"I'm listening."

The room fell silent again.

"Jacob, remember when I told you we should make up some words for symbolical use?" Jude asked.

"Yes, Passenger." Jacob grinned for a moment.

"We made passwords, nicknames, and even jokes. You didn't give me anything for danger. You thought I was too anonymous, too silent to get caught. I have a face that will fit into the crowd, white, common, nothing of interest marring it. And I told you, yes, I believe so. Even when I was in Pennsylvania, I haven't had the misfortune of meeting danger."

Jacob eyes knitted, "Judie, what are you getting at?"

The spy's eyes finally met the green eyes watching him, "It's time to set some words for danger, boss."

Jacob blinked, staring at the man as if he was a deranged case at Lambeth, suffering of melancholy and paranoia. He rubbed his eyes and rose, drawing the curtains open and peering through the dusty glass. Maybelle heard nothing but the hum-drum activities below, an accountant thanking a customer with a drawl. A business owner quietly scolding the receptionist for waiting too long on the uncomfortable chairs. Nothing was out of sort in this perfectly-ordinary place.

Jacob fell back down, satisfied with the change of light, the sun that slowly warmed the glass and made everyone sweat on the forehead, "What are you talking about, Judie? What have you seen? Is it about the Order, or something else?"

Jude scratched at his damp neck, licking his lips, his gaze finding the antique oak of the desk interesting, "No one should know this, boss. The less who do, the better."

"Just tell me."

The spy's voice was almost inaudible, "Someone's chasing me, Jacob."

His boss sat up at the statement, his jaw slackening, "Who is? Tell me everything."

Maybelle moved to the table and listened to the man, her sharp vision exploring the streets, a habit formed by watching over a building for a more than a decade.

"I was crossing Victorian bridge, just yesterday, sitting in the cab, looking over my notes. I was heading into Mayfair to investigate more about the Grandmaster, I then felt eyes on me, which was impossible, since I was inside the carriage, safe and sound, crossing off suspects and writing off new ones. But I felt it, boss. It's the way I feel when I'm lolling on our bench, my neck itching when somebody walks down the path, holding a cone of seeds to feed the birds." He swallowed.

Jacob told him to continue, and he did, his voice cracking with fear, "I looked out the window, to see if it was my imagination, or something real. I moved to the opposite chair and watched the driver, but he was minding his own business. I wanted to go back to my notes, since I was nearing my stop, but when I looked out the window, I saw the man who was looking at me. He was inside his carriage, smiling. A man in his forties, rich, by the looks of his trimmed beard and impeccable tuxedo. He saw my face as to study it, his stare never leaving. My cab's horses began to hurry after the driver urged them on, and the man's carriage lagged behind."

Jacob shook his head, "Nothing's out of the ordinary here, Judie. People look. They judge those around them whatever they wear and however they act."

"This is what I thought as well. But when I reached Westminster, I saw the man again. Behind me, stalking me with four men at his sides. I was passing Surrey's Ground, un route to Kennington Park to meet one of the informants. He followed, and followed. He stayed behind me until I was almost at my destination, but I stopped. I didn't want him knowing what I planned. But I also didn't want to stop, lest he catches up with me and do whatever he wants. But I stopped. All for the job, boss."

Jacob was almost hesitant when he asked, "What did they do, then?"

"They vanished. One moment their master was looking at me, the smile still fixed on his face. Then he pointed with a gnarled finger, wrinkled and red, not towards me, but towards Kennington. I turned my head away for one moment, to feign obliviousness. When I looked back, they were lost among the walking crowd. When I hurried into Kennington, I found folks gathering at my usual spot. I pushed through them and found Mulford's corpse, stabbed many times in the chest." The man finished, visibly shaking.

Jacob stood and paced about the room, brushing by Maybelle as she stood in the midst, her frowning eyes fixed to the window. Jacob crossed his arms and looked sternly at Jude.

"Why haven't you got back to us when it happened, then?"

The man swallowed, "I… I was spooked, boss. I didn't want to have the same fate, and I felt eyes on me wherever I went. I secluded myself in my lodgings, and through the night wrote to you. I called a lad to take the letter to wherever you were at, and the poor boy spent the entire night looking for you until he asked about and found that you were aboard the train." His eyes were shaking as he clasped them, "Do you think we can find the man, boss? Do… do you think he will kill me?"

Jacob sighed, "No one will kill you, I will dispatch some Rooks to look for whomever killed Mulford, they were fond of the old chap. I'll take you to the train if you want, you'll be off duty until we find him."

Jude's eyes welled, he grinned warmly. His breathing beginning to slow after he sighed, "Thank you, Jacob. I knew you would take action."

"Now, we need a general description. Tell me what the prick looked like, as much as you could remember. The more detailed, the faster we can catch him." Jacob took a seat again and relaxed, resting his chin on his hand.

Maybelle's lost focus on the two men's conversation, instead she blinked her eyes, struggling to remove the splotches from her vision formed by staring at shinning glass for too long. The building across was old, the old bricks almost grey. Perhaps another company, or a warehouse. The sun was almost unbearable now, shining with vigour as if to cook the Earth or explode in a magnificent show of heat and light. Its rays glinted in her eyes, sudden, calculated. The product of a glassy surface moved by a human effort. The wind blew and made a sudden ripple of fabric on the roof. A masked figure stood there, a rifle in its hand, already taking aim.

Maybelle jumped, diving down and screaming at the men, "Down! Get down!" They listened only after the sniper fired his first shot. It crossed the glass, cracking it, a good portion of its corner spraying the table, landing on Maybelle's back. She shook them off and felt a few shards lodge in her back. She grunted, looking up. Nobody was hurt, both men on the ground, Jacob's hand on the window sill as he peered through the corner with one eye, his crouch unsteady. Jude was laying prone, mumbling to himself as he held his head.

"Jacob! Kill him, kill him!" Maybelle's voice became raw.

"He's too far!" He said, unleashing a revolver from his side. He slid the weapon to Maybelle, his eyes begging, "You kill him, you're good at guns, aren't you?"

"What? I'm good at rifles after I've held my breath and counted to ten thousand!" She couldn't dream of holding her quickened breath now.

"Just try, go on." The sniper fired again, the bullet shattered another part of the glass, stopping when it got sucked inside the door. Maybelle heard the horrified cries of accountants and their customers, of people who rode through Southwark at Midday, like wounded animals searching for sanctuary. She grabbed the weapon and held it sideways against her lips, murmuring hasty prayers as she rocked on her knees.

Her fingers clutched the side of the table, her head popping out to search the roof for the sniper, she found him. But he fired again, and she ducked under the table, almost bursting into tears. A hand touched her side, and she flinched away, almost falling onto Jude. Jacob was comforting her, patting her waist where the bone protruded.

"Kill him, kitten. You can do it."

"Then, why can't you?!" She asked him, tears escaping her eyes.

"You showed me what you can do, and you made me believe there's a greater shot in London that isn't me." He grinned, his hand patting her side again, "If you can make a man's head explode almost a mile away, you can send this one flying off the prick's shoulders. Go ahead."

Maybelle moved away from his touch, leaning against the table's leg. She wiped two tears away and blinked the rest from her eyes. She gripped the revolver and readied herself. But an explosion on the ground floor shook the whole building like a thunderbolt, and the gun fell from her hands. Maybelle recovered and glanced at Jacob, who was looking back, his hazel eyes for once drowning in raw horror.

She heard a woman's voice shout behind the window, Fire, she said, Fire! Maybelle sat up, looking at Jacob with a sense of dread. She felt sick to her stomach. The smoke began to appear behind the shattered glass, shrouding the position of the sniper. He nonetheless fired blindly, and his shot bounced off the wall and landed at her foot. She kicked it away as if it was a grenade. The smell of fire began to grow, reminding her of homelier times, memories she pushed away whenever they came up. A family barbecue, a story by the hearth. The window was completely black, the blue sky obscured, the sun refusing to shine and chase the bitter darkness. It was a void, the void of her visions, the void that will claim her.

"Jacob!" She called, wanting someone, _anyone_ , to act. Because she couldn't. Her eyes were glued to the window, her hands on the ground.

"Get up, now. On your feet." He stood from his crouch and pulled her up by the arm, moving her to the side, away from the window. Glass crunched under his feet as he rushed to Jude. Who was nearly out-cold from fear. Jacob shouted, slapping the spy's back and removing his short, crushed hat from under him. Jacob helped Jude stand on his quivering legs, and supported the drooling man as he burst through the door. Maybelle ducked until she was out of the room, standing in the corridor. The building smelled overpoweringly of gas, the methane forcing her to cough and struggle for breath. Jacob held the spy as they moved through the corridor, Jude stumbling with every step, his feet unable to lay flat on the wood. Instantly, he fell as dead weight in Jacob's arms, barely breathing. The two men collapsed to the ground. Maybelle gasped, going to help them up.

"He's unconscious. Might be the air, or might be too much stress for such a calm man." Jacob said with an oddly cool voice. He flipped the man and slapped his hand against the clammy cheek, but Jude was not waking.

"Should we carry him?" Maybelle asked. Jacob opened the man's eye with two fingers, studying it.

Another explosion below, and an explosion right around the corridor, where the stairs were built. It shook the building again, and Maybelle fell to her side. The corridor drowned in smoke. She righted herself quickly, coughing, and began to tug at Jude's arm. He woke, gasping for breath, his hand going to grasp Maybelle's sleeve.

"Jude, we need to go, now!" She told him, standing and trying to pull him up with her, but he was almost glued to the ground. Jacob tried to help her, his eyes meeting hers for a second. He then looked over her shoulder, eyes widening.

"Maybelle, there's a gas leak behind you." He said, calm, as if nothing was wrong.

Maybelle's face became white, she slowly searched for the leak, as if turning quickly would cause a spark to form and end them. She found what Jacob described—a bluish brightness draining out of a hole, once used to secure lights into place. The fire by the staircase roared, snapping off bits of wood and melting wallpaper. The whole building became a mix of red and black, the flames illuminating the menacing smoke that blew out of everywhere. The smell of burning wood and gas made her realize the leak will cause an explosion, it will crisp the skin off her back and boil her brain in her skull. She struggled to find Jacob inside the blackness, finding his bright eyes inside the smoke.

"Jacob, it will explode! It will explode!"

"Judie, mate. Come on! We need to go!" Jacob shook the man again, but he was hyperventilating, his hand leaving Maybelle to tug at Jacob's clothes instead. A hazel gaze eyed her, forlorn. She knew what he was thinking- if they kept trying to save Jude, all of them would die. But she can't leave him, she can't.

"We're not going without him." Her stubbornness was going to kill them, but she didn't care. She pulled the man by his arm, letting his body drag through the corridor, Jacob held the other arm and pulled, until they reached the stairs. Maybelle crouched to lift the man, and Jacob helped. Jude was motionless as they made him sit up.

"Snap out of it, Judie!" Jacob slapped the man's shoulder, the sound muffled by the thick clothing Jude wore. The spy stared into space, his chest heaving. Adrenaline pumping through his body, causing the man to shake like a leaf in a windstorm.

The explosion almost made her deaf, ringing into her ears like a great shriek. Jacob dove down the stairs, Jude's arm in his hold, fire at his tail. The roaring ball of flames licked at Maybelle's face, crisping the front of her hair and scorching the side of her face. She fell with the men, down the burning stairs they fell and rolled, sliding along embers so hot they stung her arms and seared her torso. As if her flesh was a steak sizzling on a red-hot pan. She cried, inhaling the smoke. She heard a crack of bone, and she found herself on the ground. The lower level was an oven, threatening to burn them to the marrow if they didn't move. Maybelle lifted herself, ignoring the glowing pain in her arms. She narrowed her eyes through the smoke, Jacob was crouching by Jude's body, checking his pulse.

Hazel met blue, "May, I… He cracked his neck on the steps." He glanced guiltily at the corpse, he was the one who pushed them down the stairs. But if he hadn't, they would all be a crisped mess of intertwined flesh and bone.

Jacob moved away from Jude's lifeless gaze, he sat on the ground, legs close to his chest, his eyes almost admiring the surreal beauty of the fire. The path to the door was blocked with flames and fallen debris, blocking the exit. But even if the way was clear, the exit would be far too unrecognizable. They were doomed.

The blaze glowed in his eyes, almost turning them iridescent. His new hat had fallen minutes before, when the sniper was attempting to put bullets inside their skulls. The hair beneath was blackened, parts of his crown yellowish and brittle. The tail of his coat wilted, eaten away by flames he doused seconds after erupting. His gaze went to the ceiling, tracing the pattern builders have carved, a swirling tangle of flowers and leaves.

He chuckled.

"I knew I wasn't let off the hook so easily. I kept saying to myself—is it possible that I walked through the flames of two buildings, to come out unharmed? Third time's the charm, I guess."

Maybelle blinked, crouching to his level, "What are you saying, Jacob?"

He sighed, "Just old memories."

"Tell me." She put her hand over the crisped fabric on his shoulder, patting gently.

"When we were talking about Rosalie—your cousin, I told you not to trust anyone, since every man or woman who ever lived hid behind an illusion, whatever it might be. It might be cheating on his wife with the scullery maid, or giving himself to a dominatrix when his wife was busy with his children."

A part of the ceiling collapsed in the distance, and sparks coiled in the air like a serpent, flames still ate away hungrily at the fallen wood. Jacob hardly blinked.

"I was a victim to such illusions. Perhaps I was open to the idea of an unlikely ally, perhaps I was just drunk. But someone I trusted betrayed me. He burned an entire theatre filled with people. I'm not sure how many made it out alive, but I obviously did. That night I reclined in my chair, a raven's corpse in my lap, wondering about what I did wrong. I realized I feared nothing more than betrayal."

Maybelle stared, fighting a cough that rose up her throat, it made her choke on her breath. Jacob _did_ fear something after all. She knew it was wrong of her to assume he didn't, but the moments she realized he was human were short, and far apart. It did not help that his duty involved inhumanity, selfishness, even. It did not help that he tried to kill her, and killed four of her mates. But his memories made her realize everyone feared something, no matter how they looked like, or what they wore, or whom they called friends. It was a revelation that made her understand she wasn't an outcast, plagued by fear on every corner of a roof, imprisoned by her own thoughts.

Her hand fell from Jacob's shoulders, she listened to the cries of men outside their tomb, the calls of women, the distant birds as they fled. The floor beneath her was coarse with ash and bits of wood, her back stung from the glass that held on her skin. Blood dripped down the cuts, soaking into her shirt. Jacob's breathing was stable, relaxed, even. She crawled beside him and leaned against his larger body, her legs folding under her. She didn't want to die, but at least she was not alone.

He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, "It's been one hell of a ride, May. Everything I did, everything I stood up for, every bastard I killed in the name of freeing London. The only thing that worries me is Evie, she'll be devastated."

"She loves you, of course she will be."

"I always knew she'd outlive me. I was not as careful as she was. She handled danger like a lion-tamer, fierce and confident in her advances, but patient, calculated. I'm the man who ignores warnings and dives into the fray."

She snorted, her head resting against his shoulder. She smelled the fire on his coat, "Always the tornado-chaser, Frye."

"Always, May."

Her eyes burned, so she closed them, relishing in her last moments. Jacob had a good time, but she can't say the same. At least her death wasn't what she feared—at least it wasn't falling off a bridge, or stumbling awkwardly on one of her patrols, her clumsiness the end of her. And what of the Order? They will attack Jacob's gang, tear them to pieces with whatever force they could muster, and they will have the map for themselves, and eventually, the gauntlet. She pictured the golden beauty, a jewelled masterpiece, her guardian angel. She _missed_ it, her heart ached for something she never touched.

Her eyes studied the flames in front of them, slowly approaching. If the fire didn't claim them first, the falling debris will. At least the debris will be quick about it, she felt herself looking up, waiting for it. She toyed with death, sitting beside one, waiting for the next. Glass exploded to her right, the temperature bursting it to bits. She put her nose against Jacob's exposed neck, refusing to be blinded by the shards. Some of the smoke cleared, escaping from the window. But the air was filled stiflingly again.

Jacob stirred beneath her, "You know what? This is ridiculous, I got out alive from worse than this." He stood, leaving her leaning on an invisible being until she joined him, her eyes bloodshot.

Jacob began to look around, when he found nothing that wasn't shrouded in fire, his eyes bore into the flames itself. He moved out of the large room, stepping over black bits of paper and destroyed shelves. The backdoor at the end of the corridor was blocked by debris and fire. The steps that led to the second story were unstable and crooked. He looked at the largest hole through the middle window, one that drained smoke and almost smelled of salvation. The fire glowed harder as the idea popped into his head.

"We need to jump through the window, before the whole building comes down on our heads."

Maybelle gulped, her voice was almost a wheeze now, "Did you just say… jump through the window? The glass, you mean?"

"Or hop, if that's more your thing. But we need to make our way through."

She wanted to slap him, "How on Earth are we going to do that?"

He pointed to the window sill, "We can step up on that, but we need to break the rest of the glass, then we slip out. This will be painful, kitten."

"Yeah, I didn't know that," she grimaced, "No one said I'll be committing suicide with you."

"Would you rather die miserably instead?"

"Yes."

Jacob puffed, coughed, and looked away, "Not on my watch, you're jumping. Listen to your boss."

"You're not my boss."

"Even when I'm the one taking you places and telling you what to do? I think not." He grinned.

She was in no mood to argue with his stupid face, instead she thought about his plan. Fire burned ate through the ground and climbed up the walls, the window hid behind a veil of flames. Most of the lights were securely attached to the wall, but will obviously explode and shatter the building soon enough. On the ground, debris was a sweltering mess of books, shelves, papers, and stationary. A blue vase exploded over the tangle, spewing decorative beads over the chaos.

Jacob bent and lifted the remnants of a chair, now with two legs and most of the seat gone. He trudged closer to the window and smashed the chair through it repeatedly, turning his face away from the heat and the shards. His boots stood on fire, and he held back pained grunts. Another blow, and the glass shattered outward with the frame. Jacob tossed the chair and moved from the flames, he offered his hand to May. She blinked through the smoke. His face and neck were cut by wooden splinters and glass, blood seeping, as if he was crying blood.

"Your face…"

"Not the time."

She took his hand.

"I knew you weren't serious about giving in, kitten." He mussed her hair that had fallen out of its bun, free on her shoulders.

"Neither was I, Frye."

And on three, they jumped over the fire, and out the window, hand in hand. They breached the smoke, soaring towards what seemed like heaven compared to the hell behind them. For a moment, Maybelle felt nothing but the cool air on her cheek and in her lungs, and Jacob's calloused, bloody hand holding hers. Then, they landed.

Never did Maybelle think the smell of burning coal and sewage is wonderful, but Southwark's air was sheer ecstasy. She gulped it down as hungrily as she would the fumes of Opium. The pair laid with their sides against the darkened pavement, staring up at the burning building, but too exhausted to try and escape the falling debris, it fell around them. Their feet interlaced as they gasped for breath. Jacob's hazels looked at her knowingly, he laughed. She laughed along, they made it.

They remembered Jude in the same moment, and the laughter faded. People were rushing to the aid of the dragons who burst through inferno. One with her coat still aflame, face partially scarred after its affair with fire. The other with a brooding, bleeding frown, fingers numbed completely after the heat of wood and the pain of glass devoured the adroit nerves. The crowd dumped murky water over the pair, shouting orders against each other. Almost quarreling. Maybelle searched for Jacob's hand, blinking the water away before it stung her eyes. She found the scorched fingers, and held onto them as if they were everything.


	15. Chapter 15

Being baptized in fire was a tough ordeal. It might change you, reminding you of the importance of life, and the proximity of death.

It hurt like a bitch, as well. The glow never faded from Maybelle's vision, and as much as she rubbed her ears and shook her head, the ringing wouldn't leave her. She sat in Jacob's sofa, hunched over, stripped to her bindings and breeches, awaiting Agnes as she moved to a wooden box she brought, filled with vials of oddly-colored medicine, a few rags, and a whole slew of sharp objects. She practically shivered when she felt the scalpel practically staring back at her.

"And then I was thrown into Starrick's servitude, sold into slavery, I tell you." Agnes was telling her the story of how she found herself aboard the train, which she called Bertha, no longer an impersonating owner, but one of his many instruments.

"I'm not too familiar with the sod." She shrugged, flinching back when Agnes turned, a vial of green in her hand.

"Don't be such a crying babe, I will fix you right up, would you like a drink to numb the pain?"

Actually, she had different ideas, "Would be nice if you fetched me some laudanum…"

Agnes brushed aside her fringe and narrowed her eyes, "I could bring you gin instead, I hear a woman died when she had too much, just a week ago. It was in the papers."

"I'm only going to take one shot, please." Maybelle looked away, hoping Agnes didn't spot the begging spark in her gaze.

"Laudanum it is, then." She left the carriage, the wind behind her kissing Maybelle's skin, goose bumps rising in result. When the sun disappeared, the cold wind came out to play.

Maybelle peeped into the wooden box—a poor excuse for medical storage, perhaps once holding carrots or tomatoes. She lifted a vial and sniffed it, and her eyes instantly stung. She grimaced and put it away. The door opened, and Maybelle looked, thinking it was Agnes, but it was a shirtless Jacob. Will was behind him, mumbling something about letters and the Order. Jacob's torso was covered in burns—thin patches of skin and bubbles of white dotted his body. His arm was wrapped with gauze to the shoulder, and his cheeks glistened with some sort of smear-on medicine. He had combed back his hair, but the quiff was still burned yellow. He might have to hack it off soon.

Jacob noticed her, and she took a moment to process the men's presence. She lunged for the blanket on the other end of the sofa, red quickly covering her cheeks.

"Would it kill you both to knock?" She asked, wrapping the fabric around her shoulders. The bitter coarseness made her skin itch, she ignored it.

Jacob had this aseptically look on his face, while Will was amused, visibly intrigued. The spymaster let his eyes roam, hoping to pierce a hole through the blanket as May held it close. He almost smiled.

"If I knock on the door of a train carriage, would the passenger hear it? I never tried that." He hummed, shaking his head and going to the desk.

"You could at least make your presence known." She said, cowering away from Will's following gaze.

Both men were at the desk, hunched over the stack of papers, clearly Will's handiwork—since Jacob kept his tabletop clean. They began to mumble again.

Agnes reappeared, clutching a large bottle close to her chest, awkwardly opening the door, "I passed by the bar to get you a spoon, you're lucky I found a clean one…" She said in her Scottish twang, laying the bottle on the small table. She pointed a short finger towards the men, "When did they walk in? I swear I didn't pass 'em by."

"They do that all the time, vanishing then reappearing in a puff of smoke."

The older woman lifted a brow, her grin was unsure. She uncorked the bottle and poured the brownish, almost black liquid onto a metal spoon. Agnes put it in Maybelle's mouth, and her eyes drooped when the bitter monstrosity touched her tongue. She looked far too content as the mixture sank down her system, enough that Agnes noticed.

"Not your first time, eh?" She put the bottle away, reaching for her vials of torture. She gestured for Maybelle to open her blanket, giving a warning look to the boys. She wet a rag with green medicine and began to dab it at Maybelle's burned chest. She hissed.

"I know, I know. Take it easy, pie."

Instead of feeling the beautiful elation Opium gave her, this time it was a feeling of disarray. She stared into space as Agnes treated her wounds, only speaking when Agnes needed a gesture to know Maybelle was still awake.

Will was talking to Jacob, "He doesn't know when to strike, mind you. I don't think anyone as cowardly as this one will attempt such a thing."

"You have to be ready for everything."

"You want us to regroup and prepare for an assault sent by that meater? Jacob, I trusted your judgement for many years, but on this one, I stop."

Maybelle looked at Agnes, her eyes tired, "What are they talking about?"

"Just general things, boys fightin', is all."

"There's more to it." She told her, sitting up, "Hey, Jacob, is it about the man who tried to kill us?"

"No, May. It's about Willis. Not the Rosalie one. The Hayward one."

"Mister Straw District." Will said, chuckling to himself.

"Pardon?" Maybelle asked.

Will was annoyed, he stabbed his skull with his finger repeatedly, "Think about it."

Jacob sighed, "We're trying to form a plan, to get rid of your troublesome relative."

"And I'm telling him your uncle is so cowardly he would pass out, soil himself, and fly away simultaneously if you run towards him."

Maybelle hissed, Agnes' treatment stinging her skin and her eyes. She asked for a break.

"Not a chance, you're in pain, sweetness." Agnes smoothed back her fringe, blinking as a stray hair latched on her eyelashes.

"I'll get back to you in a minute, promise." Besides, the laudanum left her on edge, her legs almost tingly. She needed to walk around the room.

"Fine, one minute is all you get." Agnes stepped aside.

Maybelle wrapped the blanket around herself and stood on wobbly legs. She strode until she was behind the men, nudging them aside with her elbows, "Let me see, what is this?"

"None of your concern." Will was cross.

Jacob was a little more forgiving, "We told you it's about Willis."

"No, I asked you about Willis because you were talking about him. He has nothing to do with these." She leaned over the desk and studied the papers. It was Will's work from the night before, he had scribbled countless notes addressed to himself on the footer of each sheet. 'Inform Jacob', 'Send Pemble on this one', 'Take one pill of each', 'Flounder in a pool of jealousy'. She narrowed her eyes at the last one.

Will slammed his palm on the paper, leaning towards her. She flinched away until her back brushed Jacob's skin. She was between two flames, two demons.

"Don't. Read. My notes."

"Scary." She mumbled, attempting to pry off his hand.

He pushed her, and her back slammed into Jacob. She seized the desk's edge to regain footing. Her blanket fell, exposing her to the crisp breeze from a cracked window, and the gaze of two men.

"I said _don't!"_

If Jacob had a mood that changed with the coming of the moon, Will drew power from air itself. He looked almost-always ready to strike, "Don't push me, you bastard." She hissed.

A vein bulged in his forehead, "Call me that again, and I'll orphan you."

She clenched her teeth, "Well, I'm afraid God has already done the work for you."

"Hey!" Agnes pried Maybelle away from between them, holding the younger woman to her side in a motherly-fashion, "Don't kick up a shine, or Bertha will spit you right out of her belly."

"Stay out of this, MacBean." Will seethed.

"You," She pointed towards Will, scolding him like a tiny child that stole cookies from the jar, "Don't talk to me like that, remember I'm the one who keeps your home going, the one who often makes your food." She almost snarled at him.

Jacob finally budged, the commotion getting beyond what he considered entertaining. He put an arm between Will and the women, "Relax, it's not worth it."

"Not worth it? I'm the son of Ramona Franczak! How dare your slut call me a bastard?"

"I'm not his slut!" Agnes held her back from attacking, tears stung at her blue eyes, turning them cloudy.

"Oh, you will be. Either his, or mine, or even MacBean's here." His serious glare bore into the women, he eyed them with a mixture of distaste and randiness. Maybelle shrunk away.

Jacob exhaled loudly, "Will, could you go get us a drink? You could pull out one of your books along the way, draw a butterfly or two on the cover."

Will glared, "If you take yourself for a joke, why should I take you seriously?"

"Because I put pounds in your pocket, Willy."

Will shook with rage, but knew he was defeated. He stormed out the carriage, possibly going to the bar or to his room. The door almost shattered behind him. The strained air wasn't dispelled when he left.

"What is his goddamn problem?" Maybelle said, tearing away from Agnes' embrace.

Jacob turned to the desk, going over the letters as if nothing happened, "He had a tough life, May."

Maybelle burst laughing, "So?! I had the worst life of any of you pricks who moan and groan for a lost penny or a torn coat."

"No, you haven't. Remember that everyone who ever passed you on the road was destroyed in some way. You're not the only one stumbling through a nightmare."

"Did they have to face the same tragedy every day? Were they haunted by the faces of their family, close to forgetting how smiles looked on their faces, even closer to forgetting how they looked like at all?"

Jacob looked back, "You have no idea what people suffered, May. I gave my aid to women who lost their whole family for a simple cold that turned into pneumonia, I gave water to those who couldn't even find manure to squeeze liquid out of, I covered those whose bodies were almost blue, their thin bodies shivering in the biting cold, wishing to burn to death to experience one warm moment. I put coins in the rotting hands of toothless, starving elders bunking amidst dirt and sewage. People have it tough, May. Especially in this city."

"So, my pain is nothing to you?"

"Your pain is nothing to anyone. Your uncle hardly did anything but raise you in Mayfair and teach you how to fend for yourself."

How dare he belittle her sorrow? She lived in what many people called hell for most of her life. He knew _nothing_ about her, no one will ever know. Those who knew had no other choice, and those who don't should continue being ignorant.

"Listen to me, Jacob Frye. Don't _ever_ assume what happened to me."

"Oh? Like you assumed I crawled out of a slum."

"There's no other explanation for your criminal behaviour." She folded her arms.

Jacob shook his head, a grin rising, "There is, but you'll never hear it."

"Oh, yes. Whatever it is you and Will and Jude and Calvin and _everyone_ is part of, everyone but me. Fine! Keep your little secret, I honestly couldn't care less what you believed or who you served. I just want my gauntlet so I can be on my damn way." She pushed at Jacob not unlike how Will did to her. But at least Will was able to move her more than an inch.

Agnes intervened, tearing her away from the tired-looking man, "Stop it, I tell you. Go to bed, all of you. I'll clean up around the place and sleep me'self. Sweet dreams." Her last words thawed them.

"Fine, I'm heading off to the bar, I hope I don't see you in the morning." He glared pointedly at Maybelle. She clenched her teeth.

"And I'm going to sleep." She said, stepping over the blanket.

"Missy, I need to work on your burns." Agnes touched a reddish area on her neck, Maybelle moved away.

"No, we can see to it tomorrow. I need some sleep."

Agnes stepped aside, unable to coax the raven-haired woman into easing her own pain. Maybelle took a seat on her sofa, the smell of alcohol and medicine still clung to the soft fabric. Her hair still smelled of smoke, and her burnt clothing was discarded elsewhere. To be mended or thrown away, she didn't know. And if it they weren't a gift from the Morvells, she wouldn't care.

Agnes wiped down a couple surfaces, helping herself to three pieces of Will's restocked candy as she cleaned. Once she was done, she asked May if she needed anything, closed the window, laid the blanket over May, and made her way out. Maybelle was left with the chill hanging in the air, bits of Will's shouting repeating in her memory, and a vague sensation of hunger. She ignored everything and reclined, her head resting on one of the many pillows Jacob liked to add to any comfortable surface. She didn't notice it before, perhaps because she was never close enough to the man, but the pillows smelled of him. It was a wild, contradicting mixture. The leather and metal from his gauntlet, the dewy fabric of his coats, the lavender he brushed by whenever he met Jude in his park. _Jude_ , and to think they left him to die. But he was already dead, a thought said. We could've saved him. We could've dragged him out the building with us, we could've hauled him out. She told herself. But she knew she was powerless.

Tears escaped her eyes, soaking into the pillows. She felt the weight of the world on her shoulders. From Jacob's bored, disappointed statements, to Will's threats. From the people who ached to kill her, to the gauntlet that waited for the winner. She didn't want to deal with any of it.

She tossed and turned, the numbness disappearing from her limbs as the opium faded. She felt herself falling deeper in misery. She hugged a pillow, both enjoying and despising the scent that clung to it. It was an hour of pointlessness before Maybelle had enough of her insomnia. Not even the effects of Opium let her forget about the world and fall asleep. The train was mostly silent, Bob taking the night's shift, roaming about London so the train's passengers could slumber in peace. She rose, the blanket falling. She tugged it back up, standing and strolling in circles. Her eyes drooped, and a yawn rose every other minute, but she couldn't sleep.

The desk in the corner was defenseless, its protectors either drunk or asleep. The prospect of taking advantage immediately came to her. She secured the blanket around her with one hand, and made her way to the desk. The dozen papers, placed on every available spot in neat lines, were varied in age and size. One of them creased in a pattern, as if it was once folded for a long time. Another was ripe with age. One to her left was large, but almost empty, only a couple sentences on it. She glanced at both carriage doors, listening for the faint laughter and chatter of the passengers. She dragged the seat from the opposite corner, Jacob used it as he tended to his burns and left it there. Maybelle sat by the desk and began reading a random paper.

 _Blessings upon you, furthermore,_

 _Viscount Willis, right honorable, demands your presence as soon as he hosts a grand ball. A meeting will take place between those the Grandmaster anointed on the mission to recover the Piece of Eden. Should you decline, and the Grandmaster would be most troubled with your absence._

 _May the father of understanding guide us._

The date was almost a month ago, she was still lolling on Willis' roof, then. Who was this addressed to? It didn't say. Perhaps it was copied and sent to everyone in Willis' group. But she was sure she held the soft, beige paper before, or at least, saw it in a heap. It was one of the letters she nicked from Blake's office. Confirming the man was truly a member of Willis' team made her more at ease. Not because she was sorry for his death, but because it put her one step closer to the artefact.

Another letter, written in brisk letters that curved elegantly, but rather unreadably. The sender was Evie Frye, from India, replying to an earlier message her brother sent.

 _No, dear brother, the Koh-I-Noor will not locate the gauntlet you're looking for, and it isn't in the possession of the assassins, anyway. And as much as I would like to help increase your healthy interest about the pieces of Eden, I can't. Furthermore, if you paid attention to father, you'd know how those artifacts work. But you weren't there, were you? No, you were skipping across Crawley like a schoolgirl, instead of using your skills to do some good. The measure of a man is what he does with power. And that's Plato, not father._

Maybelle raised her brows. Did Jacob let his sister scold him so? She must be the eldest, since he wouldn't let her walk away with it if it wasn't the case. At least, that's what Maybelle gathered from her profound experience with her sister. Myra wouldn't let her off the hook after Maybelle came back from the park with dirty knees, a proper sister, and sorrowfully insufferable.

Maybelle continued her search. Most of the letters were addressed to Will—hasty notes, almost innate. As if scribbled while the writer walked the streets and looked ahead. Most of the letters spoke of the assassins. Indian assassins, British assassins, assassin hold over New York and Boston. Assassins, assassins, assassins. Was this the secret organization the rest of the train was involved with? May was not especially intrigued with the information. The word Assassin might've invoked a fight-or-flight response in folks who haven't seen the violence Jacob inflicted, but since she was both a willing and unwilling viewer, the name did not faze her. So, their organization killed people, how interesting.

She read one of Will's chicken-scratches. It mentioned news about the gang, and Will's incomprehensible notes he wrote in a code only he recognized. Something about candy, another about the fallen leaves of autumn. It didn't make any sense. And given context, it wouldn't be any clearer. His written handiwork was wilder than his temper. Maybelle wished she didn't have to face him again, but since they lived on the same train, well…

At least one thing interested her—one of his notes mentioned: _Report to Jacob and tell him to write in that journal of his._

The journal. _That_ journal. She glimpsed the withered leather that bound it, what was in there? Memories of his life with his family, perhaps. What he felt when his sister crossed the ocean. Notes about his progress and what needs to be done. Would he let her read it? Of course not. No sane man would let his secrets be known, especially by a woman, and it is known that a journal holds many secrets, and women sport an assiduous tongue. At least, that's what she's been told.

Jacob wasn't exactly consistent about his relationship with her, the wavering tension between them surely must've inspired him to write about her, on one of those nights cold enough the ink froze in its well and his stubbornness made him use it anyway rather than wait until it warmed. Did she need to read about his opinion about her? Why did she care?

She barely trusted the belief Will held—that opinions don't matter. Had he been living in a vacuum? Everything from a man's gait to his family and eating habits were judged by society. A woman had it worse. And Maybelle believed the opinion of her _ally_ , loosely applied, mattered more than gossip about a lady's third-hand dress. She needed to take a look at that journal.

It was wrong, she knew it. But Jacob hasn't been behaving gallantly, either. His doctrine might've warped how he perceived right and wrong, but even if she didn't follow a code, she can still do whatever is necessary. And that journal was crucial.

She made up her mind and threw on a white coat covering the back of a chair in the corner. It smelled oddly of fruits. She shuddered, it was likely Will's. Except if Leander Morvell associated with this bunch.

She tried to remember where Jacob went. As she gathered, the man departed to the end of the train, where the bar laid, probably to drown his sorrows after Jude's death. If she didn't detest the stuff, she would've joined him. Will was possibly in his room at the end of the train, or exchanging reports with Jacob over a bottle of whisky. She was safe from their wrath… for the moment.

She puffed and made her way to the front carriage. Although crammed, the room was dazzling. It was pleasantly warmed by a fire Agnes had started. The hearth was swept clean of ashes and the red carpet was bright. The windows reflected the fire. The smell of lilac covered the smell of sweat and the chamber pot in the corner. And the thin bed on the left was made. Was this Agnes' handiwork, or was it Jacob's?

Maybelle moved slowly to the desk on the right, a great big mass compared to the other furniture. She looked around, a fugitive wanting to get her hands on hidden treasure. Beyond the door to the locomotive, Bob was driving the train, his shoulders hunched, a hand going up to cover a yawn. She stuck close to the desk, and began searching.

The tabletop was tidy, stocked with books and letters somehow categorized into unequal piles. The journal was nowhere in sight. The books on the small shelf were basic—a cookbook, two geography encyclopedias, Frankenstein, and a book about housekeeping that might or might've not belonged to Agnes. Maybelle opened the desk's drawer, and between the crumbles of paper, the small notes, and a pair of fingerless gloves, she found the journal. Her heart beat faster.

She lifted the journal and began reading the last entry.

21st of May

 _That Templar was a mess of a man, and looking at his blood on the handkerchief almost gave me a sense of satisfaction. Am I turning into Will? I hope not, man is more blood-thirsty than a starved hyena. Lord knows he laughs like one, as well. I wonder what the girl will do next, will she run off to tell her uncle about his man? I doubt she'd have the guts. Will she steal the map? I don't think so, she'll never find it._

So, he _did_ write about her. Something told her she had to feel insulted, but she felt an odd gratification that he deemed her important enough. He was distrustful of her still, something she understood. Because she didn't trust him either, or else she wouldn't be shoving her hands into his most treasured items. Another entry was about the gauntlet itself, another about the gang, more about the assassin brotherhood. His sister betrothed to The Ghost. Starrick Industries taking its final breath. Flipping back, she found memories of him in Crawley, his father dying of tuberculosis. A faded illustration of a man called Ethan Frye. A description of a lonely country house.

With every fact she digested, Maybelle felt heavier and heavier with guilt. She pictured herself free enough to start a journal, and the dark memories falling into the wrong hands. She sighed. Her fingers flipped slowly through the journal, wrongfully savouring the secrets. She came by her name, her full name. The date was almost a month ago.

 _Maybelle Willis, possible heir to the Order? Hayward has another daughter. Thin and tall, not particularly beautiful. Paler than milk. Smells perpetually of gunpowder. Wants the gauntlet. Like hell I'd give it to her. Evie would kill her on the spot if she overhears her ambitions. The gauntlet belongs to the brotherhood, like every Piece of Eden out there. The Templars couldn't get their claws on the shroud, and I'll be damned if I let one of their lackeys have the gauntlet. I told her I'll give it to her if we could recover it together. I'll play along. I hope she has the innate stupidness of the order._

Maybelle's fingernails dug into the leather, she felt herself drawing her hands apart, when she heard the rip of paper, she stopped. She tossed the journal back in the drawer and slammed it shut. The desk shook in reaction. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she instantly rubbed at them to make the water disappear.

Is this what he's been doing since they met? Using her until he has the artefact and he could throw her to the wolves who donned crimson? Maybe he will throw her himself, off a cliff or down the sewers, perhaps. Or maybe he will finish her slowly, with a poison dripped in her tea every day until she was weak with a mysterious illness. Perhaps he will abandon her while they explored some faraway place, the only resemblance of a road that leads back home is one carved with footprints and weeds.

Despite hating him, and despite his brutally honest treatment, she didn't expect him to trick her. He feared betrayal, he told her. He was betrayed by a dear friend. Maybelle was nothing to him—not a friend, not a helper, but an uneasy ally. How could she not see the side-looks he gave her? Why didn't she jolt awake when he checked on her presence?

And how could he assume she wasn't a threat to him? If he took her seriously, he would've killed her when he had her in bonds. A knife plunged into her sweating neck, a rope leaving a purple scar-necklace on her corpse. She was _stupid_ for not noticing. And he was _stupid_ for not considering her a threat.

* * *

She left the carriage, her heels loud on the polished wood. Aimlessly, she wandered to the back of the train. Unsure if she wanted to confront him, or report to Agnes, or jump off the train. She found herself in the bar. The phantom was at a stool, his upper-body covered with a black shirt, gulping a glass of gin. Will was nowhere to be found, but the remnants of his presence were two open books and an ink-smeared table. Calvin was looking at Jacob, carefully estimating his drunkenness, but when he saw her, his eyes lit up.

"Maybelle, lass! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She said nothing, her eyes glossed over as she looked at him. Jacob poured himself another glass from a practically-full bottle.

"Maybelle?" Calvin asked, leaning over the bar concernedly. When she refused to answer, he popped out of the bar and approached her, "Something the matter?"

She swallowed, "Pour me a finger of something strong."

"I thought you didn't drink."

"I've been through a lot lately."

He eyed her knowingly, "Jude's death? Man, I only met the bloke once or twice, but he was kind. Something 'bout him made you wonder what else he could do. He seemed hardworking."

Maybelle said nothing.

"Alright, eager to have a drink, sit down, lass."

He moved back into the bar and chose an almost-empty bottle of whisky. Maybelle took a seat and watched him pour the amber into a glass that looked cloudy. She almost jumped when Jacob's elbow accidently touched hers. He downed his drink.

"It's strong, so watch out. Agnes is asleep, so if you pass out… I'll have to improvise. You would not like me improvising, miss."

Maybelle stayed quiet and poured the liquid down her throat. It burned a roaring fire as it slid down, she grimaced and practically gagged.

"Might need to put a bucket next to your couch, remind me to do so."

Maybelle shook her head, and asked for another.

"Really? Wait five minutes, at least. Have you had something to eat?" He asked, slightly moving the bottle away from her.

"No."

"You'll burn a hole in your stomach like this. Wait."

She wanted her drink now, but she also wanted to stop. The approaching haze did nothing to numb the pain of betrayal. She felt disgusted with herself. She had a code, why did she break it? For some hazel-eyed phantom who was as deceitful as he was bloodthirsty? She was better than this, better than her father who bruised her mother daily for what seemed like entertainment. For a father who basically lived in pubs until the barkeep had enough and threw him face-down on the mud. A father who was roaring drunk, spewing burning bits of hatred and malice. A man who rarely wallowed in his shame, but instead reveled in it. She gagged, feeling acid burn up her body. She abruptly escaped the crammed air of the carriage and scurried out for a breath of air.

Maybelle unlaced her ponytail and put her hair in a bun. The wind kissed her the beads of sweat on her neck. She felt sick. Inside and outside. She wanted to kill Jacob, she wanted to shout at her father's grave, she wanted to hop off the gallivanting home of criminals and eavesdroppers and their moderately abused caretaker, and choose her own destination, for once.

The train soon passed by a brewery, the smell of distilled gin and cherry made her gag again, and she finally spewed the bile out of her mouth into the gap. She closed her eyes, refusing to see. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, then she remembered Will would kill her for that. Unbelievably hopeless, she backed down against the wall of the carriage, chin tucked between her knees. Her heart was fluttering with whimsical nostalgia for the old times, not when she was on the lap of Josephine Willis, but when she was a slave to Viscount Willis. The steadiness and unceasing routine of her enslavement was somehow comforting. Change was something she dreaded, since it often came with major implications, and was seldom in her favor.

Someone opened the door, gasping when they saw her on the ground.

"Maybelle, lass, are you well?" The barkeep knelt to meet her eyes, "Is it the whisky? I'm sorry. I tried to warn you…"

"It's not the whisky." She reassured him weakly.

"What is it then?"

She wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell _anyone._ But she doubted he would be amused, judging by his allegiance and his relationship with Jacob. Certainly, this must be an elaborate scheme plotted by the entire train, including Agnes, who treated her with the tiniest bit of respect and kindness Maybelle desperately craved. She remained silent, taking in the nightly scene as it passed by. A wide jungle of lights and drunkards and crime and fog.

"Are you alright, lass? Would you like me to help you up?" He touched her shoulder.

"Go back to the bar, Calvin. _Jacob_ probably needs you."

He knitted his brows. Maybelle lifted herself and made her way in. She passed by the brown-haired phantom, opened the door to the storage carriage, and looked around. The room was odorous with a stinging sourness, an unfortunate malady coming from the table in the middle. A few vials were on top, colorful, arranged in a way that suggested chemical experiments. Poisons for swift assassinations, perhaps. Or a cleaning mixture used by Agnes. She didn't know. She couldn't wager and use them for anything. What was she planning? The walls were decorated with maps and old posters advertising food companies, as if someone was afraid to forget their names.

Her eyes darted about, looking for nothing in particular. On her left was a weapon rack, where four gleaming oddly-bent swords were arranged. She found the train's weapon cache to the right. A shelf full of revolvers, rifles, and tranquilizer darts for an unknown gun. She moved to the area and picked up a Colt Army 1860, used in the American civil war. Those assassins had connections, it seems. Or maybe it was the countless associates smuggling firearms for the Rooks. The cylinder was loaded with .44s, they were well-prepared as well. What was she doing?

Someone barged into the room with noticeable weakness, his voice as hesitant as his steps, "May, what are you doing?"

She didn't think, she merely aimed the Colt at the intruder and fired. The bullet went through a vial of red, the liquid splashed over the room like blood from a freshly butchered sheep, covering the brushed wood and tainting the other vials. Jacob dodged a millisecond before the bullet could graze him, lunging across until he hid behind the table. She always missed when time wasn't available, but did she want to kill him? Yes, she did. Her blood boiled with rage, how could you do this to me? How could you trick me when I almost trusted you? She fired again, hitting one square of glass on the door. Bits of it shattered, raining over the figure that waited for her gun to empty.

"Maybelle!" He exclaimed, words flooding out, echoing.

"You fucking bastard! You absolute waste of skin, flesh, and bones! If I were you, I'd donate my body to science _before_ its death!"

"What is it, what has gotten into you?!" He peered from the corner, Maybelle fired. He ducked in time.

"You want to cheat me out of the deal, you prick! Don't pretend it's not true!" She didn't feel like explaining herself to him, all she wanted was to make him pay. And if the entire train comes for her, let them. The room was fully stocked and she'd spare Agnes if it ever comes to that.

"Oh, it's about that." He said coolly, to himself.

"Bastard!" She dropped the revolver and hurried for a rifle, she aimed the barrel at Jacob's position, waiting for a moment to shoot.

The door opened behind her, revealing Will, alarmed and ready. Hands grabbed her from behind, her feet left the ground, she threw her head backwards, it connected, Will grunted. His hold weakened but never ceased. The stocks poked into Will's torso, Maybelle fired as if it would throw him back, she hit the corner of a chemical-holding shelf. A bottle slipped and fell to the ground, the ground hissed as the acid seared it. Jacob grumbled. Will fell onto her, knocking the wind out of her, the rifle fell from her hand. He pressed himself onto her, forcing her to stay down.

"What's the meaning of this?" He asked, to Jacob, it seemed, "And is this my coat? I'm going to…"

"Someone must've told her, about what we said." Jacob appeared from behind the table, wiping sweat from his brow, his voice was thin.

"Which part?"

"The part where we cut her out." His feet carried him over the spot of acid, closer.

"And you're surprised because? You thought she'd be as unforgivably dense as her uncle?"

Maybelle grunted, squirming under him, his body was so close, a feather wouldn't be able to wedge between them. His weight upon her was torture, her injuries glowed as if they were burned anew. She wheezed.

"I had hoped so, yes. Pity, I made a hat that says 'Idiot' for her."

Will chuckled, "Put it on, then."

Jacob sighed, crouching in front of her, "We can't push her out at the nearest station, we can't keep her here. What do you suggest?"

Will hummed, as if considering the fate of a sickly jennet. He rose off of her suddenly, and Maybelle almost believed he let her be. But he flipped her and pinned her down. A look of brutal hunger crossed his eyes, he moved his wrist close to her neck, she felt the tip of a blade on her throat. His other hand had no gauntlet, and wrapped harshly around her chin. He gave her a Cheshire grin. The unyielding sharpness made sudden blood trickle down her neck. She whimpered.

"Will, stop! I didn't tell you to kill her."

Will clenched his teeth at the voice, pushing the blade harder, "Do you like your blood, Maybelle? Because I do. Jak pyszne..." He swept a finger along the descending line of red, he rubbed the liquid between his fingers, eyes gleaming.

"Will!" Jacob said, pushing the spymaster off the bleeding woman. Will growled as he slid, he rose and fell into a fighting-stance.

"Don't do things I haven't asked you to, Will." He pushed the man further down the room.

Maybelle stood shakily from the ground, a hand going to cover the cut under her chin, she began to smell the metallic sourness of it. Her stomach flipped.

"You have no idea what you're doing, Jacob! Letting her off the hook so easily."

"No one said I'm letting her off the hook, and no one said you're the one in charge. I know _exactly_ what I'm doing. Aren't you grateful for what I've done for you?"

Maybelle looked around for something to help her bleeding, she found nothing. She stumbled to the table, hand resting on the broken glass and burning liquid. The men were close enough to stab each other, and the tension began rising.

"Don't go there," Will's voice was chilling, "Don't you go there."

"Oh, but I'm going there. You seem to like doing whatever you want, that's not the way we run things around here. If you want to go back to your lovable chaos, go right ahead."

Will pushed Jacob, "Stop blaming me for a life I didn't choose!"

Jacob pinned him to the wall, "I'm not blaming you for anything except the way you choose to thank me for the chance I've given you! Would you rather go back to the streets, would you?"

Will growled, whatever retort lost when he noticed Jacob's dangerous glare. Maybelle removed her hand and saw blood coating it, she stumbled. She bent down and unsteadily grabbed the rifle from the ground. Jacob had his sights on Will, his daggerish gaze almost daring him to blurt another disloyal complaint. Maybelle aimed the rifle with the power left in her, she fired. Will ducked and the bullet pierced the weapon's shelf. Jacob backed away, unable to react properly, blinking. Will lunged towards her and thrust her rifle upwards as she fired. Wood and metal rained down on them from the ceiling, Will shielded himself with his hand. Will hit Maybelle's stomach with his knee, watched her double over and drop the rifle. She recovered soon after, and through half-open eyes, she blindly aimed a fist towards his blurry form. Will sidestepped, a laugh erupting from him as he watched her fall face-down.

"Do you think you can hit me? Go ahead, try to do it." He rolled her and kicked her in the stomach, her voice became wedged in her throat.

"W-where's the map?" She asked, eyes staring at Will's carefully laced boots.

Will cackled, "Why would I tell you, you pathetic mongrel? Look at you, you look like a damn lamppost. Throw on some weight, would you like me to load your stomach myself?"

Maybelle rose and kicked at Will. He grabbed her ankle and twisted it, and thus her entire body went falling to the ground. He laughed sadistically and let her foot fall.

"Will, that's enough."

Will gestured towards her, "Look at her, Jacob. I can't believe you thought she'd be any help."

"I did help him!" Maybelle felt the need to defend her prowess.

"Yes, I'm sure he wouldn't leave for a mission without emptying his balls inside his whore."

Maybelle screeched as if she was in a battlefield, she rose and dove towards Will, he seized her by the neck and shoved her towards the sour evaporation of the chemicals, he pushed her head towards the glimmering, menacing shards of glass. Colored blue, yellow, and green. Soaked in a rainbow of numbing liquids. She pushed back, groaning. Will persistently put his whole weight on his arms. Jacob watched in silence. A large shard of glass appeared in Maybelle's vision, almost like it was waiting for her. She extended herself, picked it up, and rose to shove it in Will's stomach. He cried, " _Och, kurwa_!" Gurgling as it sank farther in, hands leaving her to claw at the painted glass. Jacob yelled. Maybelle ducked and went for the dropped rifle. A foot kicked the rifle to the end of the carriage.

"That's enough, Maybelle. I'm tossing you out!" He pulled her by the collar and pushed through the acidic mess until he reached the side door.

Maybelle fought, flailing about helplessly, he held her arms behind her, pushing her face on the hard wall.

"It was a mistake trusting you, a fucking mistake!" She said, shaking with rage.

"And it was a mistake thinking you'd be oblivious," He opened the door, the passing hustle of London welcomed, "I'm sorry."

"Jacob!" She said, he pulled her away from the wall and placed her before the fray. She whimpered, watching the ground race past. Her hand grabbed one of the handles.

He pushed her with unending persistence, grunting. She twisted and looked at him.

"So this is what it's come to, huh?" She shouted above the wind and wheels, "You throwing me, back to when we first met? How poetic."

"Poetry is the least of my concern." His other hand went to pry off hers, his sheer strength and determination made her leave the metallic savior. She clawed at Jacob's neck as she fell, gravity embracing her like an old friend. Her hand found Jacob's necklace, she pulled him with her.

Out the moving train they tumbled, falling and rolling onto the black-pebbled ground. Jacob's necklace snapped in Maybelle's grasp, she rolled, the burns on her face weeping blood as the sharp pebbles scraped them. The train hurried past them. Maybelle released the breath she was holding, she looked at her hand, observing the leather cord and the shilling as if they would run back to their master like lost dogs. Jacob and Maybelle rose in unison, each ready for anything the other intended. Jacob had the vibe of a vengeful jaguar. His hand went to his neck, patting the area where his necklace was. His hazel eyes went to Maybelle's hand, and they widened.

"Give it back!" He began crossing the long distance between them, Maybelle backed away, "I said, give it back here." He opened his palm.

"Why did you trick me?" She asked, fully knowing questioning his plans was futile.

He shook his head with a faint smile, "It's your fault for trusting me. I didn't trust you either."

"Why? I told you I'm not allied with the bastards anymore. Why don't you believe me?" She held the necklace to her chest.

"Because," The wind made his over-sized shirt billow, "Because once a Templar, always a Templar."

"I never considered myself a Templar."

He sighed exasperatedly, "Give me my necklace."

With the unhindered fury that pushed her, she hurled the necklace away from them. Jacob's eyes followed. The silvery coin glared in the gaslight, and landed somewhere in the grass outlaying the empty street, or perhaps got stuck in the branches of the yellowish-green hazel. Either way, it was lost.

Jacob fixed his glare on her, one that only meant a slow death, the stars in his eyes faded. His steps towards her were calculated, like a feline stalking its prey, his expression was numb, as if he was trying to keep his emotions concealed. Maybelle backed away, her foot sinking into layers of cut stone, like quicksand. He suddenly lunged at her, his jade eyes dark with retaliation, his speed almost defying the laws of everything. His punch landed squarely on her cheek, the strength of it threw her back. The ground felt oddly comforting beneath her. Unable to fathom the pain, she rolled onto her stomach and spat the growing well of blood from her mouth. A molar swam in the red puddle. Blood ran down her chin.

Jacob's foot flipped her to look at him, he put his boot on her neck, applying pressure. Her mouth began to fill up, like a goblet under a spigot of red wine, "If you _ever_ come back to the train, I won't allow Will to have the pleasure of killing you. I'll kill you myself."

Her purpling lip quivered, a sob escaped her, she clawed at his ankle, suffocating. He removed his foot and turned without a word. She rolled to the side and spat red, her mouth kept bleeding, blood oozing out her lips as if someone shot a bullet straight into her throat. Before her a painting of blood and gravel manifested, she glanced at the departing figure.

Jacob walked along the railway, his gaze to the ground. His black shirt was corroded at random places, devoured by the chemicals back at the train. The skin beneath was papery-thin. His hand kept going to his neck in both nostalgia and pain. Maybelle's form was glued to the ground, resting on the bed of pebbles was a lot more pleasurable than pondering about her existence. Jacob faded into the horizon, a lonesome wanderer, searching for a big heap of nothingness he could dive into. A serial killer retreating instead of approaching. The cold began to seep into her clothes like liquid, she shivered, moving into foetal position. Her mouth leaked blood, trickle by sour trickle. Her dismal pain made her wish the tears froze on her cheeks, hiding her shame. But they flowed and merged with blood.


	16. Chapter 16

London's midnight welcomed her as if she was family. It was often a faraway daydream, its existence in the horizon when she was high above it. On that roof, her mind often wondered if she could touch the galaxy's edge, go far away from the pain, fly from all her troubles into the scatter of stars.

The streets were plagued with those who called the night their mistress. Men asked her if she costed lower than the other women, and others offered her an array of illegal tonics and weaponry. She didn't know where she was, the alleys were pathways of darkness, the walls were the backs of old, sooty buildings. She stopped by a couple old women squabbling about a working niece.

"Excuse me, miss." She said to the older one, slightly flinching when the woman leaned towards her.

"Wot? I can't hear ya very well."

"Ma'am, could you tell me what borough is this?"

The old woman cackled, "Too drunk to figure it out? Ha!" She nudged her friend, they laughed together, "You're in Lambeth, sweetheart."

Maybelle sighed, "Thanks."

She walked away, stuffing her hands in her pockets. She remembered it was Will's coat just as she touched something that wasn't hers. She took it out, it was the sepia picture of a middle-aged woman, her flowing hair was as light as her dress, she had her chin on her hand, staring out an open window, her eyes glassy with drowsiness that only made her prettier, the curtains billowed towards her like the wings of an angel. Was this Ramona Franczac, Will's mother? Or did he have a sister he kept the existence of to himself? To be fair, not even Jacob seemed to know a lick about him. She stuffed the picture back in. In the other pocket were two shillings she pondered about spending. Would she ever see Will again? Would he kill her for a couple of coins? Did she care? No. She turned a blind eye to the warm inns and steaming buns on display in bakeries and summoned a cab. She found herself telling the driver to take her to Mayfair.

Her decisions had no rhyme or reason, most days. And this decision was the worst of all. As she sat in the carriage, she realized she meant to appear before Hayward's judgmental eye, to kneel before him and beg forgiveness. What else could she do? The other side had already discharged her out of its folds and chased her off. She thought about starting over, getting a job as a guard on the roof of a candle factory, or working inside the factory itself for fifteen hours a day. She would be reborn another woman, with another name. But she couldn't bear the thought of leaving Maybelle Willis behind. It's the only life she knew.

Mayfair was just as dazzlingly pretentious as she remembered, the mansions towered higher than the noses of those who inhabited them. The smell of crowns was ingrained in the very pavement she walked on, as if gold dust was used in its foundation. The parks seemed vividly colourful even at midnight. Maybelle sadly realized- no matter how much she despised the objectionable notion, Mayfair was home.

She reached Grosvenor Square, at the edge of the green heart of the area, she hid behind a tree and observed the manor she spent half of her life in.

The estate was lit up as usual, a practice that never waned ever since the Viscountess was buried, as if Hayward wanted to stave the ghost of her memories away. Maybelle chuckled as she mused, the man was afraid of the wrong dangers. The Viscountess died in the very heart of safety, she wasn't assassinated by a jealous rival's gunmen, she was not poisoned by a tainted goblet of wine. She was killed by her own hubris, by her insistence to follow the endless trends of the rich. Hayward never stopped showing off his wealth, and he never will. And someday, it might be his downfall.

Under the clear, starry sky, she noticed the silhouette of a rifle-holding individual on the roof. Was she having an out-of-body experience? No, Hayward had already replaced her. He disregarded her existence once she set foot outside his lawn. What would he make of her return? Nothing. He treated her the same way everyone did—a too-thin-for-childbearing, too-tall-to-be-elegant girl only there because she popped out of somebody's uterus as some point—a useless waste of skin.

A list of the men she killed could be written on a scrap of paper, even smaller if the survey was dated before she met Jacob. Hayward Willis underestimated her, joining Stocker, Jacob, and Will in their revolting assumptions. Even Glen thought little of her, since he ratted her out as easily as one would his younger sibling about a broken vase.

With a pang of childish devastation, she realized that stupid megalomaniac would never allow her back home. She put her cheek to the bark, reveling in its scratchiness because it cleared the numbness from her mind. Her fingernails dug into the wood. What was she thinking? That either of those bickering associations would let her in their secret world? She belonged in the sea of lionesses that served the king. And the prizes they squabbled for weren't for her. They belonged upon the platforms of the rich and powerful, not on the arm of a young woman that only knew the names of rifles.

She felt herself drifting away, a husk of a soul in an ocean of bleakness.

* * *

You couldn't see your raised finger in the large room, instead, the fumes of burnt Opium made your eyes water, the floral sweetness of it inviting you to a dim fairytale. Red couches lined the walls, men of all walks of life inhaled smoke as they reclined on the bland pillows, their hats and coats thrown beside them. They piled on top of each other, strangers but brothers drowning in a pale sea. Most of them were asleep, and if Maybelle didn't know any better, she'd say they were lying in their graves. She knocked on the slimy bar for the keeper to look up.

"Westwall Den, in case you haven't seen the sign outside. We serve what you think we do, plus a nice selection of beer. What can I get you?" The man asked, the red poxes on his skin moving with his words. One of them oozed out a yellow liquid, he didn't notice. Maybelle stood her ground.

She fished out the rest of Will's money, "Fill up a pipe with whatever this can afford."

The barkeep counted the coins with a finger, his other going to claw at the poxes on his face, "This'll afford you a full one and a place to lie, you get some change." He slid most of the coins into his hand. Maybelle took the rest.

She watched him as he filled an old, almost grey pipe with the sticky powder. He lit it with the tiny flame and handed it to her, and a pox touched her fingers, she closed her eyes and turned away.

She sandwiched herself between a young man with a beard that might've taken more time to grow than he was aged, and a woman with brown hair that might've once been blonde. She took a long, preparing breath of Opium tainted air. To her, the pipe seemed to be filled with stardust, she took the first inhalation with a sort of unrequited appreciation, because it made her cough. She inhaled again, ever persistence to revisit the castle she constructed in her dreams. She kept the white smoke in, only releasing it when her body strived for oxygen. Her pupils constricted, and the room became dark as the contradicting mess of numbness and twitchiness set in.

The city of elation welcomed her, a stark twin to the London she knew. In there, nothing hurt her. Sparrows soared through a smokeless sky, landing on trees that weren't harmed by deforestation. She needed no gauntlet, because the ground wasn't an enemy. The ground was above and below and everywhere, she could stand wherever she wanted to and take whatever path. She could even visit those warm summer nights in Nottinghamshire, where friends and family circled a roaring fire, listening to tales that carried the saltiness of the Atlantic Ocean to them. The memory of that bonfire warmed her to the core, she shrugged off Will's coat, putting it in her lap. She finished her pipe and placed it above the thick, stiff fabric. She laid back, her eyes to the cracked ceiling, the familiar sense of deep peace submerging her. In her castle, she didn't need to worry about Jacob, Willis, or Will. She didn't ponder about the gauntlet. It was just her, her sweatiness, and the lulling chemistry that thrummed inside her.

"I've been wondering where you went to, Maybelle." The voice was heavy with Opium, and it was as familiar as the walls of Willis' estate. She turned to the source.

It was Stocker, the unfinished pipe held only by his mouth, ready to fall, his hand stroked the thigh of a man he sat next to, both oblivious.

"What are you doing here?" She had a brief assumption, "Are you real?"

"As real as the next daylight, soldier." He coughed out a large gust of smoke, "Hayward flipped London upside-down looking for you, good for you, it is, that you weren't caught."

She blinked the sleep away, "I'm sure he won't be happy knowing I'm still alive."

"He would be furious. So, keep running, and don't look back." He inhaled again, "Don't look down, either."

Her eyes half-lidded, she made sense of his presence, "Rumours had it you went to brothels instead of dens, that this whole shenanigan we chased every month was just a ruse. But I see that isn't true."

"No, it ain't. I will never forget my first wife, Maybelle. And I will never forget myself, either. I will remain loyal."

"To a Ghost?"

"Maria will always be more than that. If she's a ghost, she will have the decency to haunt nothing but my dreams. That's how she was, that's how she'll always be." He laid his head on the back of the sofa, inhaling another bout of Opium. Bits of the burning powder rained on him, but he barely moved. He gave her a sideways glance, his smile weak and mellow.

"Are you going to kill me, Mr. Stocker?"

He exhaled smoke, eyes closing. He waved her away as if she was trespassing in his room, "Run off, kid. You don't want anything to do with what we do."

It slightly hurt, "What about all the training you gave me, all the nights I've stood watch?"

"The Lord will reward you for giving us clear heads and calm hearts, but I can't. Go your own way, Maybelle. Forget Willis and go away." He opened his eyes to glare at her, but a smile played on his thin lips, "Because if you don't, I'm afraid to say, indeed, I'll kill you."

She giggled, itching her hands idly, "I did not expect any less."

"Find yourself, Maybelle, before one you despise finds you instead." His words faded at the end, and he fell into a slumber, the still-smoking pipe forgotten in his hand. Her head swam with possibilities and dangers, and her whole body perspired from the heavy weight of them.

She laid her head back, watching the shadowy figures dancing along the ceiling, wearing poppy-coloured dresses. She closed her eyes, wishing the feeling would last forever. Where any touch, regardless of intention, caused her to convulse and melt into a pleasured mess. Tomorrow will be better, she promised herself. Tomorrow I'll roam around London like a wide-eyed tourist. I'll visit everything and meet everyone. I'll find my place in this metropolis.

I promise.

* * *

The barkeep woke her when the birds began chirping in the City, the walls were thin enough that she heard them, plus a maddening commotion in the background that wiped the remnants of her peace. New customers arrived to the den, those whose jobs forced them to be nocturnal. They waited impatiently for the last batch of smokers to leave, their gathering blocking the entrance.

The barkeep told her to hurry up, she rubbed the visions from her eyes, attempting to return to the other world. What happened yesterday? Oh, yes. Her fellow smokers were rising as well, some of them had already left the den before dawn for their jobs, or a different brand of poison. Stocker had left perhaps after half an hour of sleep, to avoid his squad learning of his dark habits. The man seemed to be entirely dependent on Opium, but the guards wouldn't understand his selfishness. They would want to accompany him to a den whenever possible.

Maybelle left the den with Will's coat on her arm. The air was chilly and smelled slightly of dew, but the ground was dry. London was already awake, alive with the pursuit of money and unadulterated respect. Her stomach grumbled and her head pounded, the dull ache furthered by the movement of cabs and omnibuses before her. Goosebumps erupted on her skin, she wore Will's coat, ignoring the fruity scent. She walked to a nearby grocer she remembered seeing on her way to the den.

As she reached the shadowed stands, her eyes immediately darted about, already sampling the colourful array of fruits, baked goods, and vegetables. She was famished. She pushed through the hordes of haggling folks, a fruit stand caught her eye. Its arranged display was oddly impeccable, as if it was one of Jacob's desks. _Jacob._ The world that came with him slipped through her fingers like water.

She neared the stand, searching for the juiciest fruit. Between apples and clementine, apricots were available, she liked apricots. She gave the old man a penny and bit into the orange flesh. She walked down the raised platform of the market, dodging a few salesmen who thrust brown signs about cleaning supplies and matches towards her. A child of twelve stood on a wooden barrel, advertising soup, "Get your canned vegetable soup at Barker's, now sold in boxes!" He cried, holding up a can of the foodstuff.

She almost departed from the street when a group of men rushed by her, surrounding her as if they wanted to imprison her. One of them knocked into her hard enough, she gallingly dropped her half-eaten apricot. She looked at the fruit as it tumbled down the slightly-inclined street, gathering mud and small rocks as it rolled. Maybelle sighed.

"Hey!" She said to the marching group of crimson-clad men, a familiar coat-of-arms adorned their shoulders. None of them turned to look at Maybelle. The stomped ahead until they disappeared behind the corner.

What was this symbol on their shoulders? She followed the group and pretended to sight-see, smiling at every run-down building. She hurried beside the group, hugging the road as if she was looking for a cab. She studied the symbol. It was Willis' coat-of-arms. But a sudden memory made her realize it was Blake's coat-of-arms as well. Two soaring eagles, feathers royally golden, gliding around a jeweled red cross. _'Libertatem Clamor'_ was written under the crest, _freedom cry_. She had assumed, once, the cross was Hayward's way of declaring his religion, or political stance, but seems to be—it's much more than that.

She had a brilliant view of that symbol on her shoulder, on her every watch, when her only guidance was the moonlight. And on the shoulder of Blake's lackey as he tried to paint her with bullets, another glimpse when she stabbed his large man through the eye. It was not solely Hayward's coat-of-arms- it was shared by anyone who associated with the Templars. At least her father preferred a different, simpler crest, but that didn't stop him in partaking in the love of power Templars adored. The scars on her back was a hint of his association.

"Oi, back off, official business underway." A gruff man told her, his body slightly leaning towards her, stomping a foot, as if he was trying to scare off a cat.

She held up her hands, "I'm sorry," She wanted to ask him if he served the Viscount, but she held her tongue. Her questioning would only cause trouble.

Instead, she lagged back and waited for the group to cut through a small crowd buying from the newspaper boy. Once the Templars were surrounded by gentlemen from each side, she continued her walk. Mingling with the crowds as if she was interested in the government's new acts, listening to the men argue about the best course of action, about laziness, about the parliament. The group took a right, she followed, aware of their gazes as they searched for curious eyes. She hid behind a lamppost, letting one eye watch them as the other saw black metal. They kept moving forward until they stopped at a building. A multi-story mansion with a small garden—common enough in Mayfair. It might've been the house of a land-leaser or a franchise owner.

Maybelle stood by the black railings, her gaze freely studying the red figures as they walked inside, mumbling. One of them spared a glance behind him, Maybelle looked down and pretended to stroll. The man averted his eyes and closed the door with a sharp bang.

The small garden was a mix of daffodils and white roses, the old flowers were wilted, to make way for the newborn buds to inhale the turn of the season. She looked across both sides of the sidewalk, noting how Mayfair's residences looked at her skeptically, wondering if her plans were as shady as she looked. Unfortunately for them, they were right. She vaulted over the railings, the sharp, defensive pricks at the top almost catching her breeches. Maybelle immediately fell into a crouch and snuck past the scented bloom to kneel beneath a closed window. She peered up, and through the clean glass, she found one of the Templars patrolling the halls, like a demon guarding the gates of hell.

Maybelle ducked and snuck around the corner. The shade washed over her like a wave. Despite the light that climbed over London, she clung to the sanctuary of faint shadows. She half-crawled across the trimmed, pricking grass. She ignored the worried glance a passer-by gave her, and found that the third window was open. She crouched under that.

"I might be wrong in my assumption," The man's voice was thick and blemished with age, "But what I offered is of utmost importance. My employer and dear friend, Mr. Dixon, was slaughtered less than a week ago by the man."

The other voice was rough, as if the owner had dined on gravel, "Your proposal is unjust to our cause, Mr. Johns. We simply cannot spare the men and the supplies to follow with your plan."

"But-"

"Our supplies had been thinned by the same man. Don't you see, my dear Percy?" There was a slight pause, and the ruffle of clothing. Maybelle peered above the sill and saw the younger man stand in a room full of Templars. Their keen eyes flitted about, looking for the merest fly to squash under their tall boots, "I don't oppose your plan, but I simply cannot go with it."

The older man shrugged, "You can try."

"Indeed, I can try." His face was scarred heavily with fire, his smile was forced and ominously promising, "I've been chasing the man and his allies for quite some time now. You might not be aware of my duties in our Order. But you see, the Grandmaster has given me the task of eradicating this… menace, this enemy of man who calls himself Assassin." The burnt man put a hand over Percy's shoulder, regarding him, "Why, I killed one of his spies. This one was slippery, I tell you."

The scarred man removed his hand and glanced at the window, his smile fading. Maybelle immediately ducked, her heart thrumming in her ears. She pressed close to the white bricks.

"What did you do?" Percy asked.

"I'm sure he was cooked thoroughly, but unfortunately, the man you want dead escaped, along with one of his allies. It was a woman, black haired. Have you seen her?"

"Can't imagine I had the displeasure, I was on another duty with my men."

"Your master might've intimidated a good deal of people, but forgive me when I accuse him of bad leadership. Why would he send most of his men out of the city?"

"That is Mr. Dixon's business." The answer was gruff.

The rough voice was cool, "And now, you're asking me for help. For me to give _my_ men to your plan. Why should I trust you?"

"Because we pledge our lives to the same person. And because getting rid of the assassin's gang would weaken him considerably."

Maybelle took another careful glance. She knew the slightest spasm would attract the attention of the small army within. The room was unbearably tight for the cluster of Templars, a small parlor meant for a maximum of seven. She practically expected the room to give out and collapse thunderously under the immense pressure of large feet. Percy stood with his back to the window, his hands in fists, his shoulders hunched with frustration. Maybelle drank the sight of the scarred, smiling man. Beneath the innumerable cuts and burns on his face, he was probably in his mid-thirties. The vagueness of fine bone structure-strong jaw and protruding cheekbones-suggested he was once vaguely handsome. The small burns on Maybelle's cheek itched her, and when she rubbed at them, the purple bruise on the opposite side spread an ache across her face.

"You raise a good point, my dear Percy. But the gang is far too spread to try to eradicate it now. Do you suppose we should raise the blighters from the dead? Is that what you came here for? Maxwell Roth is dead, along with his army of boisterous reapers. Don't you see? We are no match. Killing the assassin would be the best course of action. Cut the head of the snake, Percy. Kill the queen and the colony will die out."

Percy sighed, "Look, I'm begging you."

"You don't appear to be begging."

"Are you waiting for me to kneel before you? One of your allies is dead, and we, as their guardians, ask you to combine your strength with ours so we could take down the headquarters at the City. And once we finish with the trivial, we start with the powerful. We would sweep through London, recruiting Rooks after they decide the assassin is unfit to rule them. And we will force any unaffiliated criminals to join us. We'd promise them glory-"

The scarred man laughed, "Glory isn't what criminals want."

"Then we'll promise them an endless source of income. You won't see the rebirth of the Blighters- you will see the rise of their successors. And you will command them."

Another cackle, "Me? I operate with conscious determination. I doubt the fallen Rooks would want to die for my will."

"If you break off a bird's wings, it would do anything for a sip of water. It would die for you."

Maybelle crouched low, focusing on the men's words. A gravelly voice hummed.

They argued for a few more minutes until he decided, "Your proposal might hurt our supplies and men, but if your plans yield any results, I suppose the assassin will be at my mercy. I would've done my part in the Viscount's plans."

"You would, Mr. Cain." Percy's voice was undoubtedly eager.

"And when do you recommend we commence our assault?"

"My men gathered intel. The headquarters is guarded thinnest when it is almost afternoon. Most of the gangsters retreat for a bite or to smoke by the Thames."

"And what of the man himself?"

Maybelle heard the rustle of a skirt against short grass, she turned her head to look. A young maid with rusted shears in her hands stood gawping. Her mouth, fallen into a gasp, resembled a deep tunnel. Her long fingers were stained green.

The maid snapped out of her trance, "Mr. Cain! Someone's… a woman's trespassing!" She yelled, then retreated whence she came, dropping the large shears behind. Maybelle's boots felt as if they were planted into ice, but she soon realized she had to move.

Maybelle rose, the back of her neck itching, eyes following her departure. She couldn't glance back, lest the guards catch her face and memorize it, ingraining it on the death-list evermore. She hurried across the street, a carriage rushed her way, the horse galloping with dizzying haste. It reared toweringly, refusing to trample her. And the driver let out a string of curses, his whip lashing across the street. She recovered from her petrification and continued, a filled omnibus halted as she sped through, the passengers gasping and awaiting an accident to gawk at. Maybelle ran into a shadowed ally that branched into several others. She hurried through the obscure, colossal maze until the feeling of dread was no more. She stood by the side of one small building, gasping for breath. Maybelle glanced back, and saw only the muddy cobblestone of the alleys, and heard the faint breaths of a couple as they showered each other with forbidden, sweet nothings.

The Templars wanted to get rid of Jacob in the most satisfying way possible—to strip him of his power, bit by bit, until he was a vulnerable ant to crush beneath their boots. She remembered the starry glory in his eyes as he spoke of his Rooks, what sort of person would she be if she kept the Templars' intention to herself? As if in objection, the smudge of purple on her cheek began to ache. She recalled the smirk of the pixie by the bar, the grins of Calvin, the olive-green of their thick coats. Weren't they Rooks? If Jacob didn't deserve the knowledge of impending destruction, at least those two did. They have to know.

They have the right to live.


	17. Chapter 17

"Wait! Wait!" Maybelle shouted to a green-wearing fellow, supported by a bland wooden cane. He turned to look.

The mustached man was in his forties, his feet were bare and blackened by London's filth, he scowled at the approaching woman.

"Excuse me, sir. But are you one of the Rooks?"

He narrowed his eyes, "Wot? What are you sayin'?"

"The… gang, the Rooks."

His eyes widened in recognition, "No, I don't associate with them fellows. Now bugger off." He whipped around and continued on with his limping gait.

Maybelle sighed, leaning against the walls of a shop that smelled of spices. That was the third man she stopped in his tracks. Didn't Jacob's men don the same olive-green? Granted, it was a stylish color for the poor, a hint of the hues the wealthy wore despite the arsenic. She crossed the road, a scowl plastered to her face. She almost sat down on a stone bench, but as saw the blur of green to the far left, she stopped.

"Alright lads, the cargo must be delivered to the Southwark headquarters as soon as possible, you have three hours before Norrup is cross with me. He already hammered most of the nails on my coffin, and I ain't wanting more, now."

He was a man of thirty-two, hair as blonde and as matted as straw. Freckled heavily, a gap between his teeth. He grinned at the Rooks that drove the carriage onwards, departing with a cloud of dust. Maybelle rushed towards the man, who turned to speak to a woman wearing the same color, a frail yellow tie around her neck.

Maybelle panted, standing two feet behind the man. She tapped his shoulder.

"Who's that?!" He asked as he turned, stirring the air. A blade instantly emerged in his hand, pulled from his side.

"Easy, I have information you might find interesting." Maybelle held up her hands, sparing a worried glance towards the revolver the woman wielded.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"I'm a friend of Jacob. Maybelle."

He regarded her through narrowed eyes, "Jacob never told me of a new spy with your name."

"You hardly know all the spies Jacob had hired." She dropped her hands, "There's something you need to know."

His eyes remained small, but he put his blade away, "I'm listening."

Maybelle looked about, as if someone was secretly listening, "I heard of a plot to revive a gang known as the Blighters, and more importantly, the Templars plan to invade the headquarters of the City this afternoon."

He briefly went silent, "Where did you hear this?"

"I snuck by a Templars property in Westminster."

His grin was amused, "An experienced spy, eh?"

"Not… really."

The blonde man sighed, "I don't know you, this might be a trap. You might be one of them on some sort of plan," He gave her a suspicious onceover. "But I will send someone to confirm your finds, meanwhile, I'll increase manpower in the headquarters. Thank you, send Jacob my regards, now."

"I'll… try to." Maybelle said, she stood aside, watching as the blonde waited on the sidewalk, tapping his foot. She went to sit on the cold bench. A few minutes later, a wagon arrived, driven by more Rooks. The Blonde offered to help the woman up, but she gave him a dirty look and climbed up herself. The Rooks disappeared from Maybelle's sight, the fastest wagon in the entire street.

* * *

Hyde park was a masterpiece of both humanity and nature. The spreading green was dotted with couples laying on spread blankets under trees, or right in the middle of a rainbow flower field. Butterflies fluttered and bees buzzed about, landing on the vivid colors to drink their fill. The Serpentine reflected the reddish hue of the setting sun, the tiny waves sparkling like stars. Swans disturbed the diamond of the water, waddling about in swirling lines, diving momentarily to search among the sand. Cyclists rushed across the smooth path by the pond, their gazes taking in the forest that surrounded the area. Horses galloped in the distance, stomping the grass and kicking up lumps of dirt, their dark manes whipping in the cool air, their riders pushing against their bellies with their boots.

Maybelle leaned on the railings of the gazebo, staring up at the magenta globe of the world, following a whale shaped cloud. She departed from the City once she reported her findings, but she didn't know if the knowledge was helpful in countering the Templars. She pictured the headquarters bursting in flames, the scarred man on the roof, rejoicing with his hands touching the sky. A part of her wanted to go back and offer her help to the Rooks, but what if they learn of her true identity? What if they receive word from Jacob that she mustn't be trusted? The warm blood of Blake's squad was still warm on her hands, the last thing she needed was more death.

Rubbing her eyes, she listened to the playful shouts of two children as their father rowed their boat into the Serpentine. The swans approached curiously, and the small family began to break off bread for them. Maybelle exhaled and pushed off the railings. What remained of Will's money was a tiny stack of coins, whenever she reached in to count them, a sudden fear engulfed her and she stopped. A shilling would buy her a place to stay for the night, perhaps in Southwark, if she made it there without freezing. She buttoned to the very top of the jacket and tried to inhale, it was suffocating.

She walked out the bare shelter of the pale-blue gazebo, heading towards the path that cut through the park as if Moses parted a green sea. She hopped over the railings, ignoring the unforgiving looks of three vibrant women holding folded parasols and a thick blanket. Maybelle strolled through the pale, soft gravel, her stare fixed on the small pebbles that sprang away in her wake. She heard a faint rustle in the trees overhead, a shaking of a branch that couldn't have been one of the wind's many tricks. Maybelle stopped to look, the planetrees were devoid of squirrels and chipmunks, only a few birds sank into their hidden nests, sleeping peacefully, unfettered by the bitter cold. Maybelle snorted at her own agitation, and strode on.

Behind her, on the ground, erupted a volcano of beige dust. It found its way into her nose, and she coughed, feeling the fine powder cling to her throat. She glanced back and found the path empty. The three women had already reached their destination, parking themselves under the superfluous shade of a pink cherry that had bloomed through the cold spring. She was alone on the tight path, departing from the jovial activities that stretched beyond the afternoon. London fell into the wide-eyed alertness of the night as Maybelle almost reached the end of the path.

A hand landed on her shoulder, the force planting her in place. She gasped, whipped around, and aimed a hook at the assailant. The phantom side-stepped, and in all his supernatural glory, held Maybelle's arms behind her and stared down. The icy glare of his hazels was overcome by his pupils, dilated by adrenaline. His brusque scowl made her tremble. He said nothing.

Maybelle squirmed, "What? What do you want? You told me to leave you alone, and I did! So, it's _your_ turn, let go!"

He kept a straight face, "I'm not letting you go until I understand what you want."

"What?" She fought against his hold, and he pushed her flush to him, "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, May."

"No, no I don't."

He shook her, frustrated, "You alerted the City's headquarters, they managed to walk away unscathed. Why? Why did you?"

She gave him an odd look, "Why aren't you glad that it's done?"

He snorted, his composure melting to reveal a barely-restrained smirk, "I _am._ But I want to know why you did it, kitten."

She shook away from him, and he let her go, "So, now you're calling me kitten? A couple of days ago, you wanted to turn me into a drink."

He ignored that, "I want to understand. Why did you alert them? I thought you wanted some sort of revenge. I thought that you wouldn't let the merest prank idea slip away, or… you know, something a lot more serious than a prank."

"What?"

He sighed, taking her arm and half-dragging her across the path, "Tell me why, May. Is it because you thought I'd re-induct you into our little gauntlet party? I'm not doing that. Not after you read my journal, stabbed Will, and messed up my desk."

"I… I didn't-"

"Didn't what? Didn't mess it up? Yes, you did, it took a whole hour to rearrange it."

She grumbled and resisted rolling her eyes, "I didn't save your Rooks because I wanted to get a ticket to ride your stupid train, Frye."

"Then, why did you?" They made it out of the gate, and stood on the pavement, refusing to look at each other. Their eyes drifting to the congested streets of Mayfair, and the lamp lighters as they lit them with rods in their hands.

"I did it because I can't let the Templars finish the only power in London capable of taking them down."

"Oh-ho-ho, someone's developing a grudge."

She yawned, "I'm more concerned about them taking my gauntlet."

Jacob scoffed then chuckled, finally meeting her eye, " _Your_ gauntlet?"

"Yes, as far as I'm concerned, you offered it to me when we made that deal. You know, before you stabbed me in the back."

He chuckled again, "You can't consider it backstabbing if you weren't part of my plans anyway."

"What?!" She snapped, whirling towards him, "I think you said we had a partnership—work together until we find the gauntlet, then I'll have it, or did you forget?"

"No, I didn't forget. And you thought wrong," He avoided her glare, "You must be out of your mind to assume I'd hand the artefact to you, whether you worked for the Templars or not."

Her face wrinkled in disgust, "Why?"

"Because," Jacob run a hand over his face, only his jade glare remained visible, he removed his hand and gave Maybelle a long look, "When Evie prepared to leave, she reminded me of many things. She was worried I'd forget the lessons we took years before, and the lessons our experience in London taught us. I didn't forget."

Maybelle blinked, "Uh-huh?"

"There is… there was, another artefact in London."

Maybelle leaned in to hear Jacob's hushed tones.

"We had trouble containing the catastrophe the artefact caused inside its vault, I shudder to imagine what would've happened if the Templar took it and made it out." He paused, searching the distance, "If I forget each and every lesson I've been taught, I will not forget this one—the artefacts are items no one should have. This is why I've been actively pursuing them after Evie left, because I finally believed in her ideology. Because I want to lock them away and keep them from those who would abuse them."

Maybelle caught the last words, "You think I'd abuse the gauntlet?"

Jacob snorted, turning away. His face was blank out of frustration, "Anyone would abuse superhuman powers, don't you think?"

Maybelle lightly shook her head, and practically went through the brooding phantom. She walked the exhibition road and glanced once at the Royal Geographical Society. Jacob came next to her impatiently.

"I can't forgive you for what you've done—stabbing Will, reading classified documents. But I do appreciate your help."

Maybelle laughed with all her might, "You… forgive? Appreciate my help?!" Her stomach began to feel tight, so she clutched it and continued laughing, "Why, thank you, Frye. I kneel before your glorious magnificence."

He rolled his eye, "I'm serious, May. What you've done on the train cannot be forgiven. Have you ever heard the phrase _curiosity killed the cat_? You know who killed her? Jacob did, _kitten_."

Her laugh cut short and her teeth clenched, "So, you can't forgive me for stabbing your little animal, but I'm supposedly forced to forgive you for cutting me out of the deal?"

"There wasn't a deal!" He hissed.

She pushed him, leaving in the tiny momentum of her feeble nudge. He clutched her arm.

"Let me go, Frye. I'm done with this."

"I'm quite sure you're not even close to being done." His voice was close to her ear, she flinched away.

"What do you want from me? Just… just let me go my own way." Her blue eyes begged.

"I can't let you leave with Will's coat on your back, he'll rid me of my _assets_."

"Tell him to do a good job, then. We want a permanent scar. Goodness knows you'd still try to do it with the stub." She deadpanned.

"May…"

She refused to hazard a glance, instead, her sight wandered to the museums before her. The Victoria and Albert, a twinkling star visible miles away due to the beaming gaslight. The Science Museum, a glorious cube of inventions of the era and before. Jacob shook her arm again.

"May, I'm talking to you." He was incomprehensibly quiet.

She finally looked at him, but as that happened, he lost the words he wanted to say. He struggled to craft more.

"I appreciated your help with… the fire, and Blake's mansion. And what you've done today. There are many reasons I couldn't let you go. Mostly because I was worried you'd report to your uncle. But now I see you've reported against them…" He licked his lips and his brows furrowed.

"Your point?"

"You're a powerful ally, and I would like you to come back aboard the train." He grinned, as if his charm would melt his awkwardness, it didn't.

Maybelle feigned a smile, then resisted a sudden urge to itch her arm, "Why would I trust you again?"

"Because we can come to an agreement, a real one, this time." He let go of her arm, standing tall as if attempting to tower over her.

"No."

"You can have the gauntlet for as long as you need it, but after that, it's for the brotherhood. This is my offer."

Maybelle looked at the street—it was full of carriages heading to clubs and dinners. She could almost hear the restrained laughs of drunken patrons booming across Mayfair. They drank, and they ate, and they lived a life of infinite pleasure. Jacob was the man that worked as they slept, to keep them safe, by his words. Maybelle couldn't care less about the safety of the rich—she had a whale of a time taking care of such business for the last twelve years. Her burns stopped glowing and the constant ache in her legs was improving, but her soul never healed of Templar abuse.

"Jacob, why would I trust you again? Tell me and I'll go with you."

He beamed, moving a fallen strand from his forehead, "You shouldn't, but I do trust you, and I'll give you the freedom to do whatever you want. You're no longer a prisoner. You can choose to walk away, right now. Go on. Or you could come with me, get changed, and have a cold glass of lemonade."

She grimaced, shaking away the sour memory, "And if you backstab me again?"

"You're free to get revenge however you want. I won't question your methods, May, since you clearly know what you're doing."

She nodded dismissively, then inched closer to him, "If you ever try to betray me again, I'll put a bullet through your head while you're having a shit. Start taking laxatives, Frye."

"Will have to remind myself to mix it with my beer." He smirked triumphantly, looking away.

Her thoughts shifted then, reminding her of certain words Jacob uttered, making his opinion known. He believed in her strength, he was one of the first men to take her seriously. Not even Stocker did after she passed him, drenched in sweat from exercise, heading towards her quarters so she could read a mountain of books about archery. Her uncle didn't acknowledge how much she sacrificed for him, and regarded her with the same look he gave his maids and the boy who shines his shoes every morning. But here was the phantom, the devil that wore black instead of the usual red. Here was the man that almost killed her, and he was granting her his utmost respect. His remarks seemed genuine, to boot.

Forgetting everything, she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. The gesture didn't last a moment, and he remained shocked throughout. But it was enough for Maybelle that he didn't push her away.

"Thank you." She breathed into his shoulder.

"For… what?"

"For believing in me."

* * *

One of Jacob's ways to apologize to Maybelle was absolutely horrid—after May repeatedly refused the offer, he took her to a pub in Southwark. The train would pass through the station by midnight, and they had tons of hours to kill, he told her. They stood side by side, the pub in front of them. The look on Maybelle's face was absolute dread, but Jacob seemed content as he watched the patrons dancing in the small tiled area. A band of four nestled in the corner, one of them tapped on a wooden box to produce the beat. A young man in the corner chased another with a filled tankard, and when he caught up, showered the laughing man with beer. The music thrummed inside Maybelle's chest, and the air stank dizzily of alcohol. She wanted to hurl.

"Come on, May. This place is one of my favorites." Jacob offered his arm.

They walked through the fray and entered the warm pub. The door closed behind them, drowning out the ruckus significantly. Glasses hung above the bar like the pipes of an organ, they caught the gaslight, almost blinding the on-looker. The patrons were tamer indoors, as if London's air was the reason they went bonkers. A golden sheen lined the edges of each table, the pub was unusually rich in contrast to its customers. Maybe the drinks were cheap.

Jacob left Maybelle on a seat by the window, at a table meant for three. She watched the swaying jumps of the working class, their feet kicking up dust. A woman ceased dancing and bent over, throwing up her last tankard. Maybelle averted her eyes. Jacob returned with two tankards of beer. He placed one bitter froth in front of Maybelle, and took a seat to swim in his own.

"Jacob," She said, and his eyes glanced at her over the tankard, his Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped most of the beer in seconds.

He left the beer to listen, "What is it?"

"I don't drink." She scrutinized the scratched texture of the tall mug.

Jacob shrugged, "More for me, then." He took another gulp, "I saw you drinking whisky on the train, was that an exception?"

"More or less, but I couldn't keep it down anyway." She pushed the mug towards him, he eyed her, half-amused.

"What is it with you and alcohol, May? You must be the only person in London who doesn't drink. Do you plan on getting cholera by drinking that unboiled filth they serve in the streets? There are painless ways to go, this one ain't one of them."

"I'm not trying to go anywhere, Frye."

"Then what is it?" He pushed on.

She looked away, "I detest the stuff, that's all."

He judged her, absorbing her unfocused stare, "Everything happens for a reason, everything. Every step we took has lead us somewhere, and our future steps will take us elsewhere. It's a consistent cycle, one that only ends when we die."

"That's profound. Does beer always turn you into a philosopher?"

"I might've picked up a thing or two from my sister… oh, Lord."

She ignored him, her nail absently scraping a black material from the table's wooden fiber. She felt Jacob's eyes penetrate her, as if she was a cadaver in one of those dissecting experiments. She stirred.

"May, you can tell me why." His voice was surprisingly soft. So much that she looked up.

"No, I can't. It's personal." She lifted a finger before he could speak, "And don't mention your stupid journal, it's much more personal than your plans to scare Evie as she passed under the oak tree."

"You… read that part?"

She bit back a boisterous laugh, "You're such an interesting man, Frye. I'd _love_ to read a book about your adventures."

He took a sip, as if in preparation, "Firstly, you're the worst at sarcasm." He took a gulp, "Secondly, don't mention whatever you've read to anyone. Because if you do, I'll strap you on a boat filled with lemonade and send you across the Atlantic, and once you hit the shore of Massachusetts, I'll be there to push you right back to England."

She smirked, "Alright, alright. I won't tell."

"Neither would I, if you tell me."

She sighed, biting on her thumb. If he knew the slightest bit about her, he would discover the rest. Such was the resourcefulness of his association.

"My father, he… he was always roaring drunk. He never left the pub, but when he did, it was to hit us with his cane. My mother had to sell peasant jewelry in the market for us to get by. Fortunately, she was good at it, because he often spent weeks drinking away his money."

"What was his occupation?" Jacob asked, the beer forgotten in the corner.

"He was a nail blacksmith, ironically he was good at guns, but not hammering nails. He taught me the basics of what I know… when he was sober enough to care. He took me and Myra to Sherwood monthly, she didn't approve of slaughtering innocent deer, but I _loved_ it. Robin Hood was one of my heroes, I slept through every cold, rough night by listening to stories of him. And being there, in his forest, practicing a similar art to his… it's a memory I'll never forget."

"This is what got you into being a sniper?" He asked, leaning in.

"Hardly, I never considered it to be anything but a hobby, like any lady who hunts foxes every summer. It was Hayward that forced me to do it. He ruined it for me, whenever someone forces you to study something you love, you'll come to despise it in record time."

He snorted, "You haven't the foggiest idea. But how did you come into your uncle's care?"

She gave him a stern look, "That's going too far, Frye."

He leaned away, "Alright, suit yourself." He lifted his tankard, "You hate alcohol because it reminds you of your father?"

"No, I fear I might turn into him if I drink. I'll have none of that." She already shares too much of his characteristics…

Jacob's soft gaze was almost sympathetic. She didn't want his pity, "If he was an angry drunk, it isn't an unavoidable truth that you'd be the same. Abuse is not hereditary, as far as I know."

"Don't discuss this with me, Frye. It's not your business."

"Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you when you get a horrible disease because of our fair city's excellent water. You can't drink tea all the time, now, could you?"

She ignored him.

He puffed, "No matter, but for your information, Robin Hood was a swordsman as well as an archer. He didn't depend on one sort of action. In fact, no fighter ever did."

"Good for him. Should I clap?"

"No, you should learn a lesson or two from your idol," He finished his beer and pulled Maybell's tankard towards him, "Stabbing people in the eye with daggers won't always work, and let's face it—it looks sickening."

She raised a brow, "So?"

"So, I don't feel like seeing a popped eyeball rolling down a hill every time you used a dagger. Dammit, May. You need to learn how to wield a damn blade," He began draining the second tankard, "And get over your bizarre fear of heights."

As if on cue, she sat up at the word, "W-what do you mean? The last bit."

"I mean it's ridiculous. You've been a sniper for how long? Twelve years? You should've gotten over it by now."

"Jacob! You're under the threat of falling into a coma you'll never wake from, don't test me!"

"I'm not testing you… yet, this will come after I've taught you the basics. You need to accept the absurdity of your situation and begin to fix it."

"Fuck. You. Frye. You barely know the first thing about me, so don't call me a meater for having a fear, like a normal human being."

"Exactly—the first step towards transcendence is facing your fears. Not being human is one of the first things we must accomplish, I've learned. It has gotten easier through the ages, but it's still rather horrid."

She shook her head at the blatant nonsense, "I don't care to transcend."

"Then why are you pursuing a precursor artifact?" He laughed as the sheer absurdity of it sank in, "You're an indecisive mess, kitten."

"And you're a prick."

"You raise an incredible point, I hardly got the chance to top that." His face was blank.

She leaned in her seat. Behind her, a patron exited the pub, swaying and shouting a slurred song. She pinched her bridge, "I'm not training with you, Frye."

"Are you planning on getting a blade in your throat?"

"I'll be as far away as possible from a blade. I'll be on a roof somewhere, giving you support. Or if you're not there, I'll give it to that wild boar you call a spymaster."

He rubbed his chin, "You won't stay on the roof forever. One day, you'll have to climb down to… get friendly."

"That's your job."

"Oh, look! It just became yours as well. Some bastards know how to climb, May, unlike you. They will dodge your bullets and climb up to your sorry arse faster than you can reload."

There was no point reasoning with the man, "Fine, I'll learn close-quarters. But there's no way you're forcing me to climb."

He exhaled, his cheek resting in his palm, "It's a start."

"No, it's the end. The end, Jacob."

He instantly smiled, "There we go, you called me by my first name."

Her eye twitched, "It was a slip, _Frye_."

"Do slip often, then." He finished her tankard in one gulp, paid up, and waited for her at the exit, "Come on, we won't go back to the train. I have another idea."


	18. Chapter 18

Jacob's idea was worrying. Firstly, he pretended, with utmost ease, that he intended to take her on some clear ground, undisturbed by visitors, to teach her the art of swordsmanship, but the fog eventually lifted from the vague answer that he was ' _taking her somewhere she would appreciate_ '. If Jacob thought she'd be delighted to visit to one of his goons' headquarters. Then, he was incredibly wrong. The only memories she had for such places were ones of bonds and dark corners, and old chairs that reminded her of a ship's sway.

But as she stood at the entrance to the City's southern headquarters, she was instantly enthralled. The midnight glory of the sky spread over the brown face of the Thames, rippling with grey foam every time a steamship cut through it. The area was as silent as a Lord's city manor in summer, which only added to its fantasy.

"This is the place you helped keep safe. They will be glad to meet you." Jacob waved to a sniper perched on one of the flat roofs, smiling.

Maybelle's vision cast down, to the riddled stone, painted with the unmistakable red shade of death, no bucket and rag will ever have the capacity to wash it away. The wind still smelled of gunpowder and metal, interwoven oddly with the hearty scent of beer from a storehouse to her right. Any corpses were removed, but the bloody skid marks leading to the Thames remained. Maybelle looked away.

"Why have you brought me here?" She asked gloomily.

"My men would want to say hello to the woman who saved their arses," He chuckled and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her towards him, "And I can't send you back to the train without an 'I'm sorry' card, Will is thirsty for your blood, you know."

"That's excellent news. Do you have the card?" She looked up at the jade gaze.

He pursed his lips, "Time is your card. Meanwhile, this is where you'll train. You can't train aboard a train, May. As you may know, this is one of the City's headquarters. This was a funding company, health or environment, before we took over."

She narrowed her eyes in thought, and shrugged his arm away. He ignored the gesture and followed the lines of blood, stopping at the building with the lit-up windows. She followed.

Inside, she expected to find an atmosphere rife with disastrous boisterousness, but she was welcomed instead by the sorrow-tainted air of indignation. The gang members filled the crammed room, five sharing couches for three, a tankard nowhere in sight, a bar missing to the eye. The circle of the torn furniture smelled of moisture and tobacco, the colors sucked from them as if by some eager monstrosity. The building, in the echo of its recent misfortune, resembled a sick-bay for soldiers. In the corners, the gangsters tended to their battle-wounds, hoping they would turn into scars and not gangrenes. As Jacob's heavy steps cut through the haze of exhaustion, his men looked up at their master with hopeful eyes.

"How are things?" He asked the filled room.

Mutterings of ' _good'_ and ' _alright'_ answered him.

"That's good to hear." He turned to May, removing his hat to reveal his recently-trimmed hair, "I'd like you all to meet the woman who provided intel to Peter. Without her, this place would've been burned by the prick who planned the assault." He extended his arm to May, she eyed the metal at his wrist, glinting playfully against the candles. She stepped forward and took it, out of an instinct that baffled her.

He held on, and the gangsters looked at her with the most thankful gazes they could muster, a slow clap began, ascending into a small applause. She had to smile. No one has ever clapped for her, no one has ever thanked her for a job well done. In the red eyes of the broken Rooks, she found a rare warmth that was impossible to feign. This is the truest she's ever seen anyone. And it almost brought tears to her eyes.

Jacob was nodding at her, giving her a proud look she wished Stocker would demonstrate, but Stocker's days were over, and she was here, with the phantom. Inside, a blooming sensation told her the phantom is pleased, the phantom is finally trusting her with all his valiant might. How could he not? She saved a desolate headquarters, its under-manned state making it ripe for the taking. He might've imagined she did it to further her own means—to gain his trust and get back under his wing. But he didn't seem to care, because he had received his apology card and accepted it without objection.

* * *

With the sun's profound emergence, the gloom lifted from the headquarters, scuffling away to interrupt the lives of others in London, as it has always done. Maybelle rose early, her lids still low, thirsty for sleep. A familiar face appeared behind her, softly interrupting her viewing of the Thames by an edge she didn't particularly fear.

"Hello, name's Peter. Hope you remember me, now?" He folded his hands behind him in a gentleman's manner.

She gave him the formalities, "Yes, the one I gave intel to."

"The one, miss." His parted grin appeared, then he stood by her, "I couldn't find the time to thank you yesterday, I was tending to the men."

"No problem. I was… just doing my job."

He stayed there, observing how she took the view before her. The words he wanted to say were many, but he couldn't fathom how to form them.

The southern headquarters riled up Maybelle's imagination in ways she couldn't comprehend. When the darkness dissipated, it revealed the headquarters in all its rusty beauty. The small area rested on the Thames' banks, the moss-covered, stone platform was constantly kissed by the calm waves, producing a lovely ruckus. If someone were to sit by the edge of the platform, the murky water would lick at the tips of their boots, and the heavy scent of the polluted river would stick to their clothing and resist any attempt to remove it. Both tiny and huge steamboats passed by, small enough to stop inside the tiny docks of the headquarters, large enough to cause traffic along the invisible, watery road. They howled as they passed, like enormous whales, adding to London's smog through their smokestacks.

As Maybelle stood by the edge, admiring the proximity of the snaking waterway, she closed her eyes and listened to the waves. She imagined herself playing by the ponds of her youth, laughing with her sister as they dipped their feet in the cool water. The river before her was killed by the enormous amount of sewage and rubbish that was thrown into it daily, the redirection of those poisons lessened the smell, but it didn't change the disappointing, muddy hue. Or the lifeless emptiness below the surface.

Peter came behind her, "Yes, living by the Thames is fascinating, but it wears out after the first day or two. The constant whistles drive me mad."

"I was never this close to it," She breathed in the dark scent, "I never had the reason to."

"Lucky you," He stirred, shifting his weight, "I have a confession to make, now. When you told me about the assault, I thought you were pulling a prank for a bet. You don't exactly look like a spy, much less one in Jacob's service, now. I thought-even trained ears may fail to catch minute details. Perhaps they were attacking the headquarters of another gang. If I hadn't considered your intel for a moment or two, we'd all be dead."

"Okay."

He exhaled, "What I'm saying is—I'm sorry for doubting you, now. We can't thank you enough."

She shrugged, "I'm no hero. I just felt it was necessary to deliver the information."

"It most certainly is. You'll always be welcome here, Maybelle. I trust your nightly stay was comfortable, now?"

It was not the first time she shared a room, "Yes, you don't need to worry."

"Alright, breakfast will be served in a few hours. Enjoy your day. And if you want anything, do look me up."

She stopped him with a hand on the shoulder, "Wait, there is something, yes."

He smiled, "How can I help?"

She bit her lip, going to scratch at her neck, "I feel quite defenceless. You see, I'm often wandering with a rifle strapped to my back. I was wondering if it was possible…."

"Say no more. Come with me, now." He gestured ahead.

They passed inside, to the warmth of the small fireplace that kept out the morning chill. The room was partially empty—everyone was still asleep, recovering from the hellish nature of war. Jacob was among them, somewhere in one of the small buildings. Maybelle appreciated his enthusiasm in helping her achieve new heights, literally. But she couldn't help but worry, anxiety coiling in her stomach and sapping her appetite and comfort. She pushed the future away and focused on the present.

"We've planned the defences quite thoroughly after we confirmed your intel, we were lucky we had a head start."

"You need a lot more than luck to counter those sickening murderers."

They made it to the second floor, "You seem to have a special hatred for the Templars, are you a victim of their wrongdoings?" He said.

"You have no idea. They killed one of my mates, a spy."

Peter stood in the middle of the second floor, it was one large room. No walls closed the story or divided it into unneeded chambers. She couldn't tell if the Rooks had done it to the place. It was swept and cleaned of any rocky residue of destruction, if it ever happened. One of the walls was windowless, and instead lined with cabinets full of weapons of all kinds. Maybelle found the one with the modernized rifles, and almost drooled.

"You can take a look around, take whatever strikes your fancy." He gestured at the wall of cabinets, "We have some hours before breakfast, perhaps you'd want to have a go at the target range? Refresh your memory, now? Just don't do it at night, police might investigate."

She smiled contently, "I'll consider it. But before, I have a question."

"Let's hear it."

May fidgeted with the sleeve of Will's coat, "Who are the Blighters? I keep hearing their name, every now and then. But I only have the ambiguous notion that they were your vicious counterparts."

He grimaced, "Don't tell me Jacob wasn't kind enough to explain everything, now."

"He told me of a few things, yes." She walked by each cabinet, studying the clean, dangerous weapons, "But I've never heard of these… Blighters."

"They were a gang that served the Order Jacob is against, we caused them to go extinct. But I'm guessing gangs don't die that easily, now. You might see a whole slew of them down South with all them fancy names, who knows?"

Maybelle picked up a shotgun, studied the dual barrels, and put it back. She was never a close-quarters girl. "Were you there before Jacob arrived to recruit you to his cause? Did he create the Rooks?"

"He… sort of. He gathered a falling gang who fancied the name Clinkers, he saved them before they dispersed, and turned them into his Rooks."

Maybelle hummed. It was smart of him to build upon something rather than start from scratch. He might've formed the Rooks to counter the Blighters, but what of now? The blighters are extinct, and the Rooks are at the top of the food chain. One that consists of both rich and poor. Needless to say, she didn't approve of the blind chaos.

"And what do you do on a daily basis, now that the Blighters are gone?" She turned to look at him for this one, an almost challenging look in her eye.

"We take what we must, we balance the economy with what we do. Don't take us for criminals, now. We're a part of the nation." His voice was sure.

"So, you justify your actions through being the balancing power? What you do won't change a thing. The rich will get richer and the poor will wallow in more poverty. Your actions are beneficial to yourselves."

He raised a brow and slowly approached, "I thought you're loyal to Jacob."

"So?"

"So, you won't question his judgement, now." He licked his lips, "Being a part of the economy means we offer work to those who can't find it elsewhere. Turning to crime is a decision that puts food in their stomachs."

She scoffed, continuing to the shelf of knives and daggers, "I'd rather starve than steal my supper."

"You might not steal food, but you definitely steal something." He raised his head to look down at her.

"What is it? Information? Information is hardly something people cry over. Unlike the money you steal from their pockets."

He laughed humorlessly, taking a dagger from the shelf and flipping it in his hand, "You're the naivest spy I've ever met, now."

Naïve? That's the best insult he got for her? "I'm not naïve, I know more about rifling than you know about breathing."

He grinned at her with those gapped teeth, "I meant about life in general, now. I have no doubt you're a good spy, or a good riflewoman, but your allegations and beliefs are terribly simple, and completely wrong."

Maybelle gave him a side look. She walked to the final cabinet, a rifle in each shelf, awaiting a master. A Winchester 1873 caught her eye, a dark beauty from America. She picked up the rifle, testing its weight.

She grinned, eyes shining, "Oh my god."

"A recent arrival, as you can see. Be careful with it, now." The blonde inched dangerously close, "And listen, here. Jacob might trust you, but something seems off about you. I take the safety of this headquarters very seriously. I might be hazardously trustful of the wrong people, but I'm quick to fix my mistakes."

"Excuse me?"

His voice became lower, "If you weren't a spy that reports to Jacob, but to the other side, I'll put a bullet in your eye before you could close it. Do you understand, now?"

She shrugged, "I understand, now."

"Don't imitate me."

"What happened to 'Oh, we're so grateful for your help, we're indebted to you forever more'?" She glared.

"You don't strike me as a spy."

She turned the rifle in her hands, inspecting the handiwork. She avoided his questioning gaze, "See you at breakfast, Peter."

* * *

Breakfast was dishearteningly silent, the men in green were still suffering from the aftershock of the day before, including what seemed like a groggy Jacob. She wondered if the man helped the headquarters, or if he was across London, sipping sherry. Peter eyed her throughout his calculated bites of cheese and bread, and she pretended to be too engrossed in her dish to care, which wasn't far from the truth.

After that messy business, she walked to the practice range, willing to breach the sanctity of the early morning.

It felt good having a weapon strapped to her back again. The untouchable warmth it offered, the faint smell of metal and wood and bullets all mixing together, as if they were a deadly potion. Without such an abomination at her back, she felt naked and vulnerable, she hated that particular sensation.

She passed by the gangsters who had just evacuated their buildings and went off to their duties. They patrolled the short paths in groups of three or in pairs, climbed the ladders with their rifles, and ran off to do errands for whomever was the leader. She assumed it would be Peter. They looked on as she passed, and she sank further into Will's coat and tried to assume a stature of confidence, but with all these judgmental eyes upon her, it was hard to muster indifference. Peter might've spread a rumour or two before everyone departed to their chambers, or Jacob's men found out themselves. Either way, the glaring heroism of the day before was morphing into the chariness of today.

Taking position at the target range, she ignored the watchful gazes and began testing her new weapon with glorious satisfaction. The cool wind released tendrils of hair down from her loose bun, and she swept them back. The first shot echoed across the grounds, shaking it to the core. The second boomed thunderously and made the stone beneath her tremble as if in fear. Those who took up the same unfortunate career stared at her display from their roofs, only noting how close she hit the bullseye, and turning a blind eye to the long period between each shot. If she went on the battlefields of the Crimean war—if she was born then and some unholy power forced her into the lines, she was certain her death would arrive as swiftly as a train with malfunctioning brakes.

She held her breath and took her third shot.

He came behind her, and she identified his sure stance as one would a general. There was no mistaking this healthy, heavy gait, "I was wondering who wanted to ruin the targets at the arse crack of morning…"

"What do you want, Frye?" She needlessly focused into the scope, the target was a mere twelve feet away.

"Is this how you greet everyone? Why so grouchy?" His grin appeared beside her, his hat was nowhere to be found, and he donned a different, lighter coat. She only glanced briefly to confirm the phantom's existence.

"I'm not grouchy, I'm concentrating." She peered into the scope and watched the black-and-white target as if it was a living thing waiting to be turned into dinner.

Jacob watched for a couple moments, but he grew tired almost instantly, "Why are you taking so long? The snipers I've… met, hardly took a second to take aim and shoot."

She glanced away from the scope, and eyed the sceptical man with a bit of irritation, "I'm the slow, silent type. I shoot right at the head, and that requires some time to get the proper aim."

His brows furrowed, "Why the head? Why not shoot them in the guts and be done with it?"

"I need to make sure they're dead. Stocker told me this a long time ago—my teacher, he is. He told me the only way I'll survive an onslaught is to make sure the opponent drops dead before he realizes I shot him. If he gets back up from a shot to the gut, he would just have to aim his revolver at me and shoot me wherever. He might get lucky."

He hummed, "Good thinking, I suppose… I didn't know you're this meticulous in your attacks. But to be frank, this method is quite redundant since he would have mates that would have his _justice_ as soon as he hits the ground."

"They often came solo."

He snickered, "You're no longer on your uncle's roof, May. You're here."

"Does this mean your inducting me into your Rooks?" She asked, apathetic.

"Um, would you like that? I would find you a place, if that's what you want…"

She rolled her eyes and looked at him, "I was joking, idiot."

His eyes were slightly disappointed, like a lady who was denied a visit to the opera. But he was quick to cover it, "I know you were, you wouldn't pillage and raid with us, would you?"

She puffed, lowering her rifle, "Did Peter tell you anything?"

He hid his laugh with miserable failure, "Don't trust that one, he might come off as the friendliest friend you'll ever befriend, but he will stab you in the back sooner than you anticipate."

She smiled sweetly, "Huh, he reminds me of someone."

He grumbled, clenching his teeth, "Will you stop talking about that? I'm sorry, alright?"

She made an impressed sound, "The great Jacob Frye apologizing, that's something one witnesses once or twice in life."

"Make that never, but I'm making an exception." He raised a finger.

She smirked, "Why?"

"Because my men are indebted to you, and I take care of my men."

"Right you are." She aimed and tried to take a quick shot, it ricocheted somewhere way off the target. She sighed.

"You'll get it soon, don't worry."

She wheeled at him, "Don't assume I don't know my shit, Frye. I could crack open the head of a member of parliament all the way from here. Just give me some time and a clear vision."

"And if neither were possible?" He lifted a brow, his haughty insolence a gratifying display to him.

She looked gravely at him, "If you're such a master, why don't you take a shot?" She shoved the Winchester into his arms.

He smirked and loomed dangerously close to her, their sides were touching. She didn't begin on her attempt to move away before she heard the unmistakable echo of a bullet ring in her ears, the recoil sent his arms slightly aback, nudging her softly. He lowered a smoking rifle and glanced at his results for a moment, then turned his head to her with narrowed eyes and a triumphant smile, barely held back. She covered her lips, trapping a gasp, his bullet was dead center on the circular, matte sheet. Through the hole appeared the withered bricks that made the side of the warehouse. She couldn't blink.

"I took a shot, what next? Got any other tests you'd like to throw at me? It's a pleasure lessening your engorged ego."

She dropped her hand and moved away from his warmth, "As if your ego isn't reaching the roof."

"It can reach a lot of things." His remark could've been nothing related to innuendo, but the wink he added veered everything in the other direction.

"Ugh, get away from me." She snatched the rifle, put it on her back, and departed. She aimlessly went around the corner of the warehouse, she opened the metal door and walked inside.

Other than casks of beer that hogged the left side, the old building was filled with shelves of weapons, ammo, chopped wood, leather, food, and miscellaneous supplies for living—hair brushes, coats, blankets for the winter, hats, spare uniforms, utensils, and tools for fixing wagons and furniture. It was a larder, a toolshed, a closet, and an armory all at once. Everything was perfectly and compactly sorted into their own area, divided by a gaslight between every shelf. The room smelled strongly of beer, but it also smelled of gunpowder, cheese, and fresh leather. She wondered which supplies were bought, and which were 'borrowed' from innocent shopkeepers.

"Looking for a uniform, or a drink?"

She jumped, bristling at the sudden appearance of Jacob. There was a reason she called him the phantom.

"Looking for nothing, I'm trying to get away from you."

He chuckled, moving inside and lifting up a brand-new cane from the clothing shelf to twirl around, "Oh, but I'm unavoidable. I run this place."

"I thought Peter ran this place…"

"He's more of a helper, one of my vice-presidents, if you will." He studied the lion carving fastened on top of the golden thing.

"Well, he sure acts as if he's running the place independently. You know, I don't quite understand your love for incompetent employees. First Will, now this Peter?"

"And you." He pointed out with a shit-eating grin.

She rolled her eyes, "Very funny, Frye."

He shrugged, "I don't care about someone's past or manners, as long as they do the job right. Except when their past involves the Templars." He pointed the cane at her with a smirk.

"I didn't choose them! I was born into them."

He laughed, "That's even worse."

She sighed, moving to the shelf of food at the end of the warehouse and picking up a piece of dried meat, she nibbled and savored the saltiness, "Why have you brought me here, Frye? To show off and mock me, or to pull another trick on me?"

"I brought you here to show you how to fight. You got the spirit for it, you only need a proper teacher. Me." He fixed his collar and walked out of the warehouse. The sure smile was freely evident even after he left. Maybelle followed with glowering hesitance.

He walked ahead, soles heavy upon the cracked stone, his destination the hub of the headquarters. The cane was still in his hand, either forgotten, or still desirable for its unpopular usage as Jacob's version of entertainment.

"Where are we going?" She asked as she finished her meat and clapped her hands free of salt. Jacob moved across the collection of hulking Rooks with ease.

"The cellar, no one can witness your failure there." She was sure he was stifling a chuckle.

"What makes you so sure I'd fail?" She asked feebly, her eyes downwards.

"Have you trained in fist fighting?" He stopped to look at her.

"A bit?"

"We need a lot."

* * *

She followed him into the room that still smelled of blood and medicine. He continued into a hall ahead that ended with a scratchy door. He opened it and began descending with his usual urgency. She closed the door behind them and followed at a snail's pace. She rested at the wooden railings, watching him throw the cane on a faded blue couch against the wall. The only source of light were two small windows that caught the slightest sun rays that glowed against the ground. The walls were unpainted, and built of dusty bricks of ancient quality. A rack held a small collection of blades, and a table at the side of the stairs was laden with bloody rags and two sharpening stones.

Jacob rid himself of his greyish coat, and tossed it to the couch, he began to unbutton his cuffs. Maybelle reached the cellar and had the faint insistence in her heart to flee the scene.

"Frye, is this a torture chamber?"

"It can be, when we need intel. But not right now, novices train here. I assume you know which sort, since you read my journal."

"Uh-huh." She agreed with great hesitance, moving to his side to peer curiously at him like a deer sensing danger. She watched silently as he rolled up his sleeves and loosened his collar. He eyed her throughout, as if he thought she'd be curious to see what is under those clothes. And maybe he was right, but May didn't give him the satisfaction, she looked away.

He mussed his hair as he looked at her, "Get comfortable, we have some work to do."

She raised a brow, "Fine, I'll get comfortable." She placed her rifle to the side and plopped down beside his discarded clothing, sighing, a smirk on her lips.

"May."

"Yes?"

He crossed his arms, "I meant to take off Will's coat, goodness knows he wants it back anyway."

"But I'm not wearing a shirt underneath…" Her cheeks began to go crimson.

Jacob sighed, looking out the high window, "Take mine, then. Let's get this over with, I need you to learn the basics in less than a week. The Templars are all already trained, and on the move."

"You don't need to remind me of that." She exhaled, lifting the crumbled mess of his shirt. It was turned inside-out, she fixed it and darted for the table across.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

She grumbled, spinning to find him, "Don't peep, if you do, I'll gouge out your eyes and stuff them in your mouth."

He snorted, turning to face the couch, "You would? Really?"

She ignored him, shrugging out of the oversized coat and tossing it on the table, atop the blades, pistols, and rags. Her hand went to itch the scars at her back, lines and lines, the work of a heavy cane.

"Are you done?" He asked, snickering.

"No!" If he turns now, he'll see her scars. That's the worst thing he can see, she'd have to begin explaining where she got them or else he'll start theorizing on his own.

"Okay, but this wall is an eyesore, and boring to look at."

"Don't turn!"

She threw on Jacob's shirt, and found that it wasn't exactly fresh. The scent of his constant activity clung to the fabric vigorously, perhaps he even wore it overnight. Who knows? She tried to forget the heady smell and buttoned up as quick as she could.

"What about now, done?"

"Why are you being so impatient?" She scowled and walked towards him, wearing the white, soft, and naturally, large shirt.

He gave her a once-over, "You look good in my clothing, remind me to lend you more often." He winked as if expecting she'd swoon.

"What's your problem?" She crossed her arms, the long sleeves swallowing the entirety of her hands.

He hummed and counted on his fingers, "Well, let's see here. I want a carriage of my own, but there's no place to put it by the flat. There's also the matter of missing India, but having no time to revisit…"

"God dammit, I meant why're you doing this?"

"Doing what?" He tried to look as innocent as a homemade doll.

"Trying to hint at me."

"What?"

"Don't play dumb, you're doing this…. _Thing,_ and I don't appreciate your advances."

He looked out the window, as if the answer was lurking in the open-air, "I'm not sure I follow, I'm not hinting, we _are_ going to fight. Not sure why I'd hint such a thing-"

She groaned, "I mean that you want to get into my pants, what's gotten into you today?!"

He eyed her, the visage of a puppy fading to swallow her words with instant care. Then he burst into a laugh that filled the cellar and made way towards every curious ear.

His laugh dwindled into light chuckles, "Why… why would I want to do that?"

"Why are you dropping those hints, then?"

He scoffed, "I'm messing with you. I assumed you were clever enough to notice that about me."

"Don't mess with me, Frye. I barely got the time for it."

He sniffed, "Sure, because you're busy running an empire and tending to your massive trading fleet. You got all the time in the world."

She growled in frustration, "Don't tease me, in any way, alright?"

"Fine, you killjoy. Now, if you're done being such a church-bell, throw a hook at me." He beckoned with his fingers, getting into a fighting stance.

"I hope it's a metal hook." She said, then lunged at him with her fist, vocalizing as the hit connected. Something cracked, and it wasn't Jacob's chin, it was her thumb.

She cried, gripping the digit and massaging the pounding area.

Jacob was almost numb, looking on with absolute disbelief. Her case was special, that one, "Did you tuck in your thumb before you hit me?"

"Yes! What did it look like?" Was it broken? Oh god, how will she hold her rifle now?

He blinked, "Are you… are you _fucking_ serious, May?"

"What?!"

He took her hand in his, "Thumb out! Along your fingers, not inside them! Jesus, I thought you knew at least the faintest about fighting."

She squirmed from his hold and moved aback, "Not… really, Stocker taught me a bit about knives and a lot about guns, I know more about guns than my own body... And don't make a joke about what I just said."

He rolled his eyes, "I wasn't planning to, now focus! Arms up by your chin. One before the other, that's it. Elbows in, and stand sideways."

She copied his stance, "Why sideways?"

"Less of a target to hit."

She stood as he did, and he followed suit. Sweat was already beginning to coat her skin, "What now?"

"Hit me, again. Also, one straight jab, not an assault. You're not a toddler throwing a fit, you're an adult trying to protect your life. No, you're not trying, you already know you'll drive your enemy to the ground."

She inhaled and let her arm fly towards him, her knuckles caught the dip to the side of his brows and cheekbone. Maybelle hissed, shaking the growing feeling away from her bones.

Jacob swiped a hand along the dull ache, "Aim for the nose and the throat, if it doesn't work, try to gouge out the opponent's eyes. And if you're extremely threatened, you're free to hit the groin."

She brought her knuckles to her lips, "Why not hit it every time?"

As if on cue, he adjusted his breeches by the leather belt. He grimaced, "You have no idea what that feels like, no one deserves to die in such pain."

She remembered that _one_ time, "I guess you're still traumatized."

"Shut up and try to hit me."

She slowly inched closer and swung at his nose, he doubled over and checked the soft tissue, "Good arm you have there," He spoke with blocked nostrils.

"Of course I have a good arm, do you have any idea what hideous recoil Hayward's guns had? I had to cope with that rubbish for twelve years."

He snorted, "I can try to imagine the recoil." He shrugged, "But try to be faster, no one will wait for your perfection gland to stop fussing. Stay on the move. Now block this."

With a steel arm, he punched her throat with a kind of subdued urgency. The air left every cell in her body, he took the chance and swept a leg under her, she fell on her back. And he climbed on top, raising a fist that would connect with her nose if he launched it.

He raised a brow, "Too slow, May. You need to have a better grip on your reactions."

She wheezed, hands around her own throat, feeling as if lead was inside her windpipe, "W-what? But you… I didn't…"

"Let your guard down for one second and your dead, blink and you're on the ground. Lose your focus on your opponent and he'll headbutt you bad enough to create stars in a midday sky. And if he was a sadistic animal, he would rather beat you to death than pull out a gun to finish you. This is fast-paced stuff, May. Not your way, I'm well aware, but you need to adapt to this."

"Adapt to what? You being on top of me? Get off!" She punched and shoved his broad chest away. He stood, the impassiveness in his eyes made them look like they belonged to Will. She wondered if her death will come as revenge by karma, or perhaps straightforward, a shard of glass. Perhaps the tip of it would have the dried, stoic blood from before lacing it.

Jacob's nose began to bleed, and he moved away to soak a rag with it. Maybelle sat cross-legged on the ground, watching the bursting muscles inside his back tightening with every movement. How did he get so fit? None of Stocker's men possessed such a body, and they were well-versed in the matter of fighting with their bodies. Perhaps her willowness was Stocker's fault, since he preferred snipers honed their eyesight instead of their strength.

He spoke with a full nose, "Block with your forearm, if you can't dodge. But since you're quite thin, it's easy to duck or to hop sideways."

"This is pointless."

He turned, "Pardon?"

"If someone wants to kill me, he would put a dagger between my shoulder blades, and that's it, I'm dead."

"Some people prefer these…" He searched the table and ignored the rustles and whispers of paper and fabric, he found a clink. He turned to her, the rag completely drowning in blood, trails of red slithering down his arm, the tiny river bending whenever it bumped into a thick hair follicle. In his hold was one of those knuckles he used on a daily basis. These were golden, brass, no doubt, "Here," He tossed into her lap, "This is a serious weapon for those who know how to operate it. It could cause major, major bruises that might stay. It will break bones, rearrange someone's face, bash a skull in. Go mad with it, this will give you the edge you desperately need. Just don't practice on my men."

She studied the contraption that was obviously made for a bigger hand. It resembled a cat's paw, one that could kill instead of leave five bleeding lines. She slipped it on and twirled her wrist, testing it with a satisfied smile.

"Thank you."

"Yeah." He moved back to the table, "You might've broken my nose, but you can't be this lucky every single time. Keep in mind I didn't block."

"Why didn't you?"

"To boost your non-existent confidence, of course." He inclined his head and wiped his nose with the overused rag, then reached for another, "You need to exercise. From now on, you rise at five, take five laps around the headquarters, then do twenty push-ups. The day after, increase each by two, and so on."

She chuckled, rising to recline on the hard couch, "No, thank you."

He tossed the coarse rag and stomped to her. Blood began waterfalling and pooling into a line between his lips, then overflowing and creeping down his chin. His eyes were almost dead, "You think you're the first who I gave such instructions? Whoever works for me triples in muscle mass in about six months. You're no exception."

She scoffed, putting her legs up, "I don't work for you, Frye."

He wiped the blood with his palm, it smeared sideways, forming a gory smirk, "You ain't independent, either."

"I don't work for you. I'm just aiming for the same thing. How many times do we have to discuss this horseshit until you get it?"

He shook his head, "Without me, you don't have the maps, nor the manpower, nor the weapons. Without _you_ , I have pretty much everything. I advise against pushing your damn luck."

She stood and faced the bleeding phantom, he was inescapably close, "Then why are you keeping me here?"

He laughed bitterly and looked away, his grin became bloody, but he didn't spit, "Because I'm giving you a chance, why aren't you appreciating that?!"

"Admit it, you need my help just as much as I need yours."

He smiled, his grassy eyes narrowed, finally looking like the murderer he is, "No, I don't. You might've proven yourself a couple of times, but that doesn't mean you're indispensable. I can find eleven like you in this headquarters alone."

She smirked, "Admit it."

"May, you're too full of yourself."

She slapped a hand on his lips, he looked like a vampire who just had his dinner. Blood began to run down his nostrils and cover her palm, seep through her fingers, she didn't flinch, "Say that you need me around, admit it. You need a sniper, you need intelligence, you need me."

His words were muffled by her cold hand.

"I knew it." She smiled and ignored his growing scowl.

She moved away from him, her hand almost completely red. A handprint on his lips. Maybelle donned Will's coat, snatched her rifle, and climbed the stairs leading away from the silent man, leaving him to his repeating thoughts.


	19. Chapter 19

After taking a hit to the face, everything hurts, including your ego. A constant hum is in your ears, and the sadomasochistic part of you begins to want some more. Your body begging for more adrenaline, more sweat, more glory.

Maybelle got more than she hoped.

Through a full month, she began the day with her jog. Her glassy eyes saw the glare of the red sun with indifference, and the faint chill was kept away with a newly-tailored green coat. This meant _nothing_ , she told herself. She was not a new addition to Jacob's little puppet squad, she would not die with his name on her tongue. _For Jacob! For the Assassins!_ Yeah, right. She never thought of a name to scream before her death—she never respected anyone, or owed anything to anyone. She might've once owed her uncle for taking her under his wing. But what she found under the angelic feathers was a hell like no other. She had blindly followed one of the fallen for as long as she remembered. What else could she do? Beg in the cold, crime-infested streets of London? Scrounge for every meal? Refuse his double-edged hospitality? She would never. She remembered all these people living in squalor, huddling around a tiny fire made by a couple wet matches. No, she would never.

The days became a galloping whirl of intense pain. Her bones protested, her muscles cried. Every routine she did made her feel as if she was standing at the door of death. Training to hit a target was a lot less painful than taking a punch to the stomach or a slap to the bruised cheek. Jacob had warned her—you will lose the feeling in your knuckles, you will have scars that will show London that you're not to be trifled with. Muggers will think twice before even looking at you, and women will take another route away from you.

Every day they used each other as training dummies, every day they bled until the floor of the cellar had turned a rich crimson. Every day she woke with frozen muscles, crawled out of bed like a drunkard. Sometimes, one of the Rooks had to give her water because her arm ached too much to raise to her lips. Agony is the proof that you're doing it right, said Jacob, that your body will rebuild itself into a stronger form. And every time she recovered, Jacob added another zero to her sets.

And on the end of a hellish day, the only prize a breakfast and three glasses of water, someone dropped by to visit.

It was almost eight. The Rooks gathered inside to have dinner, and the lookouts switched shifts. It was a quiet, drink-less meal. Cranberry lamb. Courtesy of a recent 'shipment' that stuffed the thinning warehouse. Whenever Maybelle opened her mouth, a sharp pain along her jawline erupted. Jacob eyed her writhing form with regret. He had injuries of his own, of course—she'd managed to break his rib when they fought three days ago. Since then he's been breathing funny. None of the Rooks knew what happened below their feet—no one dared interrupt her training. Possibly because they assumed their leader was handling business unrelated to the Rooks. Either throwing a month-long interrogation fest, or training a potential novice. Neither of these things were happening.

Maybelle was leaning by the window of the empty main hall, her mug of tea now sad and cold on the sill. She raised her arms above her head, and when the familiar clench was too much, she gave up and dropped them. The door opened.

A sniff, "Agnes doesn't cook such delicacies aboard the train, who do I have to kill to improve the food?"

With a straining neck, she peered at the intruder. _Great_ , it was Will. She stared at him with bored eyes, and he eventually caught her gaze. The wind closed the door behind him.

She forgot to run.

"You… This is where you've been hiding? Jacob told me you fled! Why did he lie to me?"

May stood close to the wall, "Maybe because he thinks you'll kill me if you find me."

Will inched closer, eyes locked on May, "Then, Jacob is a smart man. You stabbed me, and pulled him out of the train. When he caught up with us, he was shivering. I never saw Jacob shiver, not on the coldest of nights, not in the arms of the lustiest prostitute."

"Okay, I don't need to hear that."

His slow steps finally took him close to her, _too close_ , Maybelle felt the urge to flee, but doubted he wouldn't catch her.

"You don't need to hear how he almost caught a deadly disease? Almost fell in front of a train of exhaustion?"

"No, I don't." Not only she felt guilty, but she doubted if that really happened. Jacob was as resilient as he was a pain in the arse.

"Then would you like to hear how I almost got an infection because of you, you bloodthirsty barbarian?"

His steel eyes practically burned a hole through her skull, she wanted to look away, wanted to flee the building and the borough and the entire country.

"Okay, you told me." She tried to step back, but his gaze froze her still.

"I didn't."

"You just did, you almost had an infection, I get it. And I almost died of hunger and frostbite because you and your boyfriend decided to stab me in the back."

"I'll show you a good stab in the back, turn around, Ty kurwo."

"Listen, here, it's not my fault you thought I was a fool. You, or Jacob."

"You're still a fool to me."

"And you're still a bastard."

He lunged, and she barely had the time to widen her eyes.

He had her by the arms, holding her with a death-grip against the window. She squirmed and her hip bumped the table, it fell, the mug shattered against her boots, and shards of the white china impaled the thick leather. One of his hands went to grip at her throat, which was punched numerous times by now, "That's it, I'm going to rid the world of your tongue, and of your existence," he then looked at her Rook garb, "Where's my coat, Willis? Where is it, you whore?"

She pointed to the ceiling, then held on his wrist.

He was frighteningly tranquil, one hand strangled her while the other squeezed her face crushingly, "You stabbed me, do you know what happened to the last man who stabbed me? He was stabbed back. Simple, isn't it? You expected to disappear from me? I know where you live, where you once lived, and where you'll live next. I know where you sleep, where you shit, what you eat. I know what you keep in your memory chest and what you write in your journals. I know who gave you those bruises and I know what you've been doing for the last month. I don't even have to ask anyone, it's all there in your eyes. I don't try to discover what thoughts cross your mind, because I'm the one who plants them there. If Jacob hadn't interfered, I would've found you and put an end to your useless existence long ago."

She began to lose focus. He had grown a short beard, and his fingers were colder than a void. Then he… loosened his grip, his features softening. Why, why didn't he just kill her so Jacob learns what kind of person his spymaster is. A man he lived with and ate with and probably fucked with.

Or, wait… maybe it's just that. His threats are as empty as his soul, as those grey eyes that glared at her. She snickered, trying to hide a smirk.

"Go on, do it…" She spoke with a raspy voice, "Do it, I bet you can't. You're just pretending to be tough, like a cat trying to look larger than he is, all fangs and no bite."

His hands almost squeezed, _almost_. He looked away from her, fuming, eyes wide, hands still round her neck.

"Hey! Let go of her! We don't do this sort of thing here, now." Peter came behind him, and with one swipe of his arm, drew the spymaster away from Maybelle.

Will wheeled at Peter, a wild beast built of iron and stone. The blonde stood his ground.

"This is none of your business, backwater-boy, shove off."

"This is completely my business, I run this place, now. _You_ shove off."

Maybelle snuck behind the pair and made for the door, but Will was quick to stop her. He held her arm and dragged her towards him. She struggled, yanking and twisting, "She stabbed me then ran off. Your leader covered her tracks, and none of you nitwits noticed his ploy."

Peter shrugged, "Even if we cared about his… other business, we wouldn't meddle in his decisions. Didn't you hear me? Piss off, now!"

Will pushed Maybelle to the ground, and her legs were too strained to attempt to rebalance. Her cheek hit the ground, and if her molar wasn't already pulled off, she would've spat it out. She crawled towards the long, wooden table that still smelled of cranberry sauce. Then she used it to stand up. She faced him.

Will's cross voice, "Where's Jacob? If he's sleeping somewhere, I'm throwing the Thames on his face. Wake him up."

"I don't know where he is, and you don't have to do what you're doing, now."

"Really? Is everyone in our association smitten by this whore?" Will pushed at Peter's shoulder.

"I don't care what happens to her, but as long as she's in this headquarters, she's safe from you. We don't condone personal grudges, do you understand? We are here to serve Jacob and help each other. We don't do beef, now."

"You don't do beef? After I'm done with you, you'll be advertised as beef sausage."

The quick footsteps of someone beat on the steps leading down from the lookout room above.

"What's happening here?" Of course, who else? You could speak of something concerning him in Scotland and he'll sense it.

"Your spymaster wants to kill your novice, I'll let you handle this, now. And try not to let them kill each other." Peter left in a predictable urgency. He has received the ticket out of matters he doesn't have time to handle, as well as a sparing from Will's wrath.

Will came to Jacob, ignoring the departing Peter, "She's a novice?! It hasn't been two months and she's inducted?!"

"No one said that," he finally noticed her, "May, are you alright? You look all wrong."

"That's her face, or were you too busy with other things to notice that?" Will said, Jacob ignored him.

She sobbed, biting her fingernail, "He'll kill me. I stabbed him and he wants to kill me."

Jacob turned to Will, eyeing him. May smirked at Will, who clenched his teeth.

Jacob turned back to May, his voice was soft, "No one will kill you, Will is just toying with you."

Will snorted, "That's right, I'm toying with her as to soften her for the kill."

"Right, and that's how I tell you to pack up and leave. Try me, William."

Maybelle barely bit back a laugh. She glared at Will through narrowed eyes, giving him a small smile, as if to egg him on. He looked ready to explode, shaking with fury she's never seen before.

"What do you want, Will? Something happen at the train?"

The spymaster raised his brows, "Your absence happened. It's been two weeks, you told me you were handling business out of London. But instead you were inducting your slut into the brotherhood?"

Jacob sighed, "I'm not inducting her, I'm teaching her something other than sniping. She needs it."

"And I'm not a slut."

Will snorted and rolled his eyes, "Why did you lie to me, then?"

"If I told you the truth, you would do exactly what you did just now—scare her half to death before killing her, that is, if you don't scare her _fully_ to death."

Will smiled with faux innocence, "I'll do no such thing, I just wanted to talk."

"You better not."

Maybelle snapped, "Throwing me against the window and threatening Peter didn't seem like talk."

"I'm talking to Jacob, not you."

She pushed beyond Jacob's shield and moved closer to Will, "I don't need your permission to say the truth."

"Listen, Willis."

"Don't call me that, I have a name."

He chuckled, "And your name is Willis. How come you call Jacob 'Frye' yet I can't call you Willis?"

She clenched her teeth and stepped even closer. A bit more and their noses will touch, she thought, gross, "The only Willis' left alive are assholes. My uncle, and Rosalie—"

"And you, you're one of them. You don't want to be considered one of them? Oh, but you served them all your life. Two months of separation won't change that."

Jacob drew them apart and wedged himself between them, "Will, I already handled the matter of her allegiance. If she was still with the Templars, she wouldn't have ratted them out." He turned to her, an arm blocking Will from approaching, "And May, stop provoking him so he could move on."

Will seethed, "Move on, just like that? You handle justice horribly. How did you _ever_ become the leader of anything?"

"Careful, you're on a high cliff and there won't be a rope-launcher to save you from the plummet. As I recall, you were trying to kill her, back on the train, the only thing one could do in such a situation is fight back."

"I was trying to save you from her, you ungrateful moron."

Jacob shook his head, "Don't bite off more than you can chew, killing an innocent is the fastest way to get a discharge. Do you think I kill without remorse? Only a monster or a madman would do so. Which one are you?"

"She's not innocent, she almost killed us all. And you're letting her off the hook."

"Trust me, if I didn't have an ounce of mercy in me, I would've killed her myself."

Will crossed his arms and smiled, "She's right there, you still have your chance."

"I'd have you know that this very headquarters wouldn't exist without her help." Jacob said.

"And why do I care?" Will laughed and looked around.

"You care, because they're all your brothers. Are they not?" Jacob's eyes were challenging.

They stared each other down, and Maybelle eyed them both.

Maybelle sighed, "What do you want, Will?"

He snorted, "I want a great deal of things, I would say I want to kill you, but apparently, I can't do that."

"Good thinking." Jacob said, impassive.

"You know what? I want an apology, that's it, an apology."

Maybelle shook her head, chuckling at her own misery, "I'm sorry I stabbed you. I'm sorry I stabbed a maniac who wanted to kill me because the man he's courting betrayed me."

Jacob bristled, "Whoa, whoa. We aren't… I'm not. He isn't really what you—"

She pushed Jacob out of the way, and oddly, he didn't bother to resist. Her force actually moved him, this time, "You can't kill me. We all know you don't have the time for such nonsense. If you kill me, Frye will kick you out of this brotherhood rubbish," she sighed, crossing her arm, "God, you're both madmen."

Will sighed, "As if you're perfectly sane…"

"Fuck off."

"And how many madmen have you met? I suppose your entire dysfunctional family consists of madmen."

Jacob rubbed his eyes, he must've felt he was dealing with a bunch of squabbling kids. Dangerous, well-armed kids. Oh, Mr. Frye. She squished my pet caterpillar with the barrel of her rifle, may I please get even by using her doll as a throwing-knife target? Pretty please?

"Will, do no harm. It's an order. If you kill her, I'll consider relieving you of your rank."

Will looked seriously at Jacob, the only card Jacob could play against him was played, he shrugged, "Whatever."

"Revenge isn't our way. Find another way to vent."

The spymaster crossed his arms and looked skeptically at Jacob, "Like what? Pick up painting?"

"Yes, that might work. Or maybe gardening, so you could grow enough sugarcane for your unending addiction."

Will paused, absolutely done, "What were you doing here, for the last month?" His lewd smile was overtly suggestive.

"Training her. Looking over the letters and notes. Tracing the Templar movement. This and that."

Will shook his head, "Are you aware you have a train in your name? You left us for quite a while even before _this_ one showed up. And now that you're getting _closer_ , you decide to leave us for good."

"I'm not leaving you for good. I'm taking a quick break. Will, you won't believe how this place looks like at noon…"

"Then finish your vacation. And go back and do something about the growing pile of intel, please. In fact, I'm here to call you to deal with a situation that sprang up around Westminster, St. John."

Jacob eyed his spymaster, "Since when do you deliver news?"

"Since it became an emergency."

Jacob bristled and asked about it.

Will looked away and remembered the situation, "A cloaked, masked man asked around Westminster to see the leader of the Rooks. The men called me, we brought him to the St. John headquarters and let the superior deal with him. He still asked for you by name."

"Did he say who he represented?"

"Yes, Rosalie Willis."

Maybelle immediately looked at Will, "What? Did you say Rosalie?" She turned to Jacob, wide-eyed.

"And what else did he say?" Jacob said.

"He almost threatened us—he told us that he could kill us all, wipe out a headquarters of fifty, what a laugh." Will shook his head, "But he said he wouldn't, because it would ruin his virtuous role of messenger, the neutral disposition of it. I almost killed him, but he gave me a letter. An invitation, he said." Will pulled out a neatly folded paper. The back was adorned with a protruding, colorless pattern of flowers. It smelled like a lady's perfume. He also pulled a ticket.

Jacob took the papers and began reading the letter.

"As is the custom, I had previously ripped it open to find out what it's about. I believe it's a scantily-concealed trap."

Maybelle stood on her tiptoes and tried to read the printed lines. Jacob put the paper to his chest, giving her a side-eye. She puffed.

"What?! I want to know what's up."

Jacob sighed, "Your cousin wants me to attend Julius Caesar in Theatre Royal. She has a business proposal."

At first, she scowled in thought. Then giggled, "What? Rosalie wants you to attend a musical with her?"

"It's a play, you uncultured swine." Will's face wrinkled in disgust.

"Whatever."

"Yes, May. She wants me to do that." He stuffed the letter and ticket in his coat, "And before you ask, no, I'm not going. Not without a plan, anyway."

Maybelle blinked, "Why are you even thinking about her invitation? It's obviously a trap, you won't return."

"Yes, you're right. Whomever is protecting her might smuggle weapons past the guards, which is what I would do, but… if she's going to set a trap for me, I can set one for her… This is an opportunity I can't ignore."

Will stood straighter at the concept, "Boss, I can round up some men to book some seats, and some to patrol the premise. I have a few ideas on how to smuggle your weapons. I'll also have a getaway ready if something goes awry."

"Good," He slicked back his hair with both hands, then his eyes landed on Maybelle. He paused.

Will glanced as well. The pair looked at each other, sharing thoughts. Maybelle scowled and crossed her arms. They _will not_ use her to see what Rosalie wants, they _will not!_

"What?" She asked, but they ignored her.

Jacob closed his eyes, "What am I going to do about her, then? I can't risk her following me to… reconcile with her cousin. Bloody or not, such a reunion is one I don't want to witness."

Maybelle waved, "I'm standing right here." It was futile to focus the attention of these men.

"What, do you want me to fill in for you? Keep her in until you come back?" Will said.

"Would be nice. Maybe you'll stop tussling if you spend time together."

Maybelle gasped, "No! No, absolutely not! He's not babysitting me, no way!"

"Will is going to watch over you and keep you from following me, until I get back. We both know how badly you want to see your cousin, and we both know how you can slip out while nobody's paying attention. He's your guardian until I get back."

"Wait, I never agreed to this!" She yelled.

"May, I'm not stupid. I can't risk you botching the mission."

"Fine. I promise I won't follow you. Just… please don't leave him with me. Please?"

He ignored her pleas, "He's not going to kill you, and you're not going to kill him. Or else I'll kill whoever's left, got it?"

"Will's brows suddenly knitted, "Alright, I have a rough plan on how to proceed about the play."

"I have two ears and a lot of time." Jacob said, obviously done with May's case.

Will shook his head, "Not in front of her, come on." He moved to the end of the hall, knowing that Jacob would follow.

She wanted to hit them both.

"What the devil are you two talking about? Is it about me? Would you like it if I pulled one of you into a corner and start gossiping about the other?" They ignored her and continued their quiet debate. At this distance, or without context, an onlooker would assume the two were weighing the pros and cons of cheese. Or maybe debating wine. The idea of those two as prosperous, plump, twenty-pound-tuxedo-wearing fucks was hilarious.

Sure, they might be talking about the mission… or about her. Maybelle crossed her arms and tried not to walk up to them.

Jacob shrugged and nodded lightly as he listened. Only speaking when Will looked up from his enthusiastic lecture—complete with wild arm gestures pointing at invisible monuments and people.

They came to her and she crossed her arms in defence. Jacob was the one to start, "Alright, May. I need to get out of here as soon as possible. Don't follow me. And don't kill each other. Or else, you're both dead."

Jacob turned to Will, "You say how long did it take?"

"Seventy-eight hours, give or take."

"And the chest, still there?"

"Waiting for you on the train… _boss._ "

"Did you… confront Lilac?"

"Jameson as well."

And just like that, he left her with him. The door barely closed before May noticed her heartbeat increasing.

"So…" Will said.

"Shut up. I don't want to hear one word."

"What did you really do with Jacob for the past few weeks?"

She turned to head upstairs, a room full of weapons of all sorts. It might be a bloodbath, she stopped herself.

"Training." She refused to look at him.

"What kind of training?" Was he genuinely curious? Or was he mining for some info that he could hold against her later? She had to take this slowly and carefully.

"Hand-to-hand. Why're you so interested, all of a sudden?" She turned to look at him, "Afraid I'll be strong enough to choke you against the window?"

He inclined his head, "No, I'm just curious if he trained you the Rook way, or the brotherhood way."

May didn't know the brotherhood's way of training their recruits, but she guessed it had to do with knives and climbing, more than how to punch correctly.

"I don't know, he just trained me how to fight with my fists, that's all."

"Then you've missed a lot." He said, leaning against the table and crossing his arms.

"Yeah, thank you for the heads-up."

"I could help you, you know. Train you the way he trained me, the spymaster way, make you almost invincible, like him, and me. Not like those expendable men Jacob uses to get money."

So, what? He wants to train her to be his sidekick? May and Will, spymasters. Book an appointment two weeks prior.

Maybelle scowled, "You don't know how much he likes his Rooks, or how he treats them. They're all brothers to him, whether they are in his little cult or not."

"But they still don't know how to fight like him, but I can show you how. I can be your trainer."

She burst laughing, "Right! And you also want to be Victoria! Too bad you have no jewels."

Will hissed, and stood from the table, "You little…" but he calmed down before doing anything serious.

"The only thing you'll do is train me so hard, my heart gives out and I'll die in an _accident._ Because you sure as hell would love to see me dead."

"Yes well, at least I don't want you to be my kurwa, like Jacob does."

What? More of his Polish. She looked at him questioningly.

"His whore, his goddamn _whore_!"

Maybelle groaned, "For the last time, I'm not a prostitute, and I haven't touched an inch of him. Do you hear me?!"

"It's hard not to hear you. Willis."

She sniggered, wanting Will to just die already, "Okay, say I want to fight like Jacob. Say I agree to this arrangement. Do you honestly think it won't result in one of us dead? Then both of us dead, naturally?"

"I'll go easy on you."

She laughed, "Right, you won't go easy on a child, or a kitten."

He smirked, "I love kittens, I would never hurt them."

She paused… no, he probably doesn't know. He never heard Jacob.

"Just kittens… what about children?"

"Depends."

Then they both said nothing, just stared at each other like two siblings forced to put up with each other. Maybelle knew he wanted to kill her. And Will probably knew she wanted to kill him right back. They both couldn't do that, but they both wanted to.

This is going to be fun…


	20. Chapter 20

**One long, extremely violent and messed up chapter coming right up. You've been warned... :)**

* * *

"And whenever they hold back, taunt them, let them know who they're dealing with." Will said, sipping sherry from a tall glass. He appeared to be completely out of place, sitting on the cellar's couch. At least in Maybelle's eyes. This was her couch, Jacob's couch. And Will breached the bloodied sanctity of it. The very fabric smelled of their sweat and bruises after they fought, how dare he sip the blasted material on her favorite couch?

She crossed her arms and backed away from him, her hands were sweating under the tight bindings Will tightly fastened, "It's not my way, in fact, it's no one's way but yours. If someone were to back out from a fight, it's best for everyone. No one gets killed, and I get to keep all my limbs."

He pointed with the glass in his hand, "But that's where you're wrong. Imagine, if you will—You are walking through a crammed, deserted alley in the middle of the night. At once a group of men appear out of nowhere and proclaim themselves the allies of that man you almost killed. What would be your reaction?"

"Umm…"

"Nothing, your heels will be stuck to the ground. You won't run, you won't scream, you won't defend yourself. Fear will run through you before anything. It is paramount. It overcomes all sensations and all reason. This is why you have to avoid it. The first step—leaving no loose ends…"

"Not everyone has an army of brothers to their name…"

"And no traces. Cover your tracks, always." He chuckled, "You have no idea what idiocy people demonstrate at a regular basis, you could pinpoint their whereabouts with a single look at their flats. You could tell what kind of person they are by how they walk, by that forgotten, questionable smear on their sweater. By the smallest things."

She smirked. She fiddled with the bindings for the eight time, the itchy, itchy bindings, "Is that so? Can you tell what kind of person _I_ am?"

He cocked his head, then instantly grinned. He realized the challenge, he would be damned if he didn't take the bait. He threw back his sherry and put the glass on the ground, beside the couch. Then he looked at her. His eyes weren't even narrowed with focus, but they were dissecting her. Maybelle could almost _feel_ the encyclopedias of his mind opening and matching facts to tangible evidence, "You're a temperamental, irritable, eternally-constipated individual. I can't recall seeing you using a privy or anything of the sort. You toss and turn at night even when you have nothing to fret over. You keep itching various areas of your body—nothing in particular, definitely not a rash or poxes. Those eyes of yours are perpetually dilated, only heavens know how you face the sun each day. You are a worrywart. You're anxious when you run out of liquorice, you're indecisive about most things. And last but not least, you can't simmer down."

She blinked, leaning in, "Your point?"

"I believe you have an Opium addiction."

Her haughty visage was quickly shattered, she straightened herself and refused to look at him. The blood drained from her face—what if he tells someone? Jacob wouldn't be pleased that his… accomplice, is a drug addict. Suddenly, she remembered to recover.

She scoffed feebly, "Who said that? I've never touched a pipe in my life…"

He snorted, "You're such a bad liar. And I know what you're thinking now—oh no, he found out, he'll report me to the authorities. Relax, I understand." He leaned back.

So, he knows that she indulges. So, what? The dens were always packed; she was not the only one in London who fell to the Asian seduction. "You can figure out somebody's favourite poison, what's so special about that?"

He puffed, "How about facts about your relationship with others? Ah, let's begin. You have an unfathomable relationship with Jacob—you hold a grudge because he betrayed you, yet you need his help, so you ignore your pride and return to him. You're debating if you hate him but trust him, or if you like him but doubt his friendly nature. it's obvious because you're cautious around him, yet you are absolutely enamoured with the thought of him. I understand that he has a certain allure, so I won't blame."

She instantly blushed, "No way, I'm not… enamoured with anything. I'm here for the treasure, not for—"

"You hold partial loyalty to him, but find his views somewhat unacceptable. Chaotic, even. I know this because many novices have the same fleeting idea: What in the world are they thinking, launching a worldwide organization based on disorganization? But a side of you sways toward accepting freedom as the ultimate saviour. This side… it always emerges after years and years of having to sit straight and act uptight and mind your every breath. It's human nature to refuse to succumb to chains. I believe your uncle's imprisonment wasn't kind to your sanity."

"I… I didn't—"

"About Rosalie Willis. You love her, she's your sister before she's your cousin. You grew up with her, got used to her more than anyone else in the world. And suddenly, you realize that you both grew up. The realization hit you like a brick. And now, you learn that she's a Templar, something you never knew you were yourself. And you're debating whether to reconcile with her, or to stay with Jacob.

"And finally, about me. You despise me, I see it in your eyes, you hate more than anything you've ever seen, smelled, or heard. You want to kill me so badly—that you think up scenarios of that instead of falling asleep. Yet you want to know me, want to know why I do things the way I do. The curiosity is killing you, isn't it?"

"No, don't flatter yourself. I don't want to know anything about you. I don't care. You're just a madman whose addicted to cheap candy." She looked away.

"Don't worry, the curiosity is killing me, as well."

She looked at him, he was watching her intently, waiting for a reaction. He wants to know about her? Why, what does he want? Is he being sarcastic?

"How do you… know how to analyse people like that?"

"Practice, there isn't a moment that passes without being completely filled with nonsense about others. It's what I've done for many years. When something is your way of life, it becomes natural to you, obviously." He rose, adjusting bindings of his own, "Enough about this. As far as I'm considered, we're not here to play analysing games. Let's fight."

"Fight? Alright, what can we—" A punch landed straight on her nose, she toppled back and fell on her bottom, a hand over the pulsing ache. A sudden dripping of blood soaked her bindings, she felt dizzy.

"First lesson of anything, anywhere—never lose focus. Lose it and you're dead. Lose it and the opponent wins. Lose it and you'll get nothing done. You just lost focus. You need to regain it, rebuild it."

Her parted lips invited blood inside her mouth, it clung to her teeth, "But you didn't tell me what to do! This is not—"

"Second lesson," He pulled her by the collar to her feet, she stood for a moment before her legs gave out, she fell again, "Recover quickly, if you don't, your opponent will gladly take advantage. Lounge on the ground for a moment, and you're dead." Then he proceeded to kick her stomach, she shielded the flesh with thin arms, and felt the air of an incoming strike. The tip of his boot hit a knuckle, and she swore she heard a crack.

"Stop! I get it! I get it! Will, stop!" Blood snaked down her chin, her eyes stung with tears from the pain and the unstoppable force.

"What? Did I hurt you? Poor thing. When you train to be a spymaster, you train to keep every little secret to yourself, and to your superior. If the enemy captures you and tortures you to spill those secrets, the entire organization is doomed, east to west. Which brings me to the third lesson… the most important lesson of all, the one that made me what I am. Someone you can't hurt, someone you can't even touch."

"No, Will, stop… please…"

"Third lesson, learn to take a goddamn beating. You can learn everything in this world—breathing patterns, relaxation techniques, or study up on Zen and chakras. But the only thing that will save you from someone who wants to forcibly extract information, is believing his beating will do nothing but harm you. An interrogation would never result in your death unless you give up info and lose your worth. They won't kill you if they lack another choice. You have to give in, to know the pain, to _feel_ it, to welcome it with a laugh." He kicked her again, and she gasped.

"Okay, I didn't literally mean a side-kick." She rasped and crawled away, any direction other than where he stood with bloody hands and a tight scowl. She reached halfway to the wall before she felt him dragging her from it by the foot.

"Take. The. Beating." He flipped her, straddled her and targeted her nose yet again. Droplets of blood followed the motion of his hand, flying everywhere, splattering against his face and shirt. Against the couch. Hit, recede, hit, recede. Her vision doubled. He swung at her throat—a technique courtesy of Jacob. For a moment, the world collapsed and turned into an airless vacuum, she gasped for oxygen that wasn't there. Will followed her movements with keen, remorseless eyes and went to work on her face. His bindings were dyed red, by now. Ripped from some lady's crimson dress. Blood went into Maybelle's eyes, blinding her, she blinked as much as she could. Snot mixed with blood, and tears ran and diluted the thick liquid. She wanted to yell, but her voice was gone, it fled the agony. Soon enough, her soul will depart the sinking ship. Who wouldn't run from this? She held her hands up, a gesture of yielding, yet he kept on.

His motions became slow to her eyes. The pain eventually turned inside out. Her nerve ends were fed up with the assault, and she became lost. Will's beating became nothing but a pinch to remind her she was still alive, yet she didn't want to be. She was on the verge of waking up and letting go. Her ears shut out the crack of knuckles on bone, the thud of skin against flesh. She was on a nameless island where nothing made sense. Where is she? Who is she? She saw flashes of her solitude, drifting in and out, in and out. Maybe this is what he was talking about—forgetting the pain, accepting it for what it is—an unwanted sensation, but nothing to fear, is that it?

Peace. That's what she felt at last. Will's punches were scratching an itch that crawled under her skin. No, No, don't stop or the pain will return. More. _No!_ Don't hit me, Stop! I can't breathe. Stop… Keep going… Was she… crying? Laughing? Screaming? Has she gone mad? Did Will hit some area in her brain which caused irreversible damage? She felt flesh against flesh, but it was nothing. The pain was nothing. His anger as he unloaded it through his fists are nothing. Is this what death felt like? Nothing? Yes, and maybe she was dead. Maybe he killed her, and Jacob will kill him for it.

And when Will decided she learned her lesson, he retreated, and she was pulled away from tranquillity.

Everything hurt.

Her nose was absolutely broken, her eyes felt raw with tears and a faraway ache that would surely balloon by tomorrow. Her breakfast was flipped upside down, and she was sure it would race up her throat any moment now. Fresh blood soaked the ground, adjoining with the old stains of Jacob's simple sparring. Blood was on her hands, down her arms, her neck, and covered her face as if she was on the battlefield. She spat, and a string of phlegm and blood tethered her lips to the ground. She tried to call out for something, anything, but the pain stopped her.

The faintest of voices, muffled by the constant ringing in her ears-Will was pleased, "These are your lessons for the day, contemplate them, I'll see you tomorrow." And he stepped over her and never slipped on her half-pint of blood. She stared at his relaxed departure with blurry eyes, and the pain was finally silenced as she passed out.

* * *

One of her eyes was a blackened slit, and the other saw only a blur, she couldn't see the target in front of her. Whenever she moved her arms, she felt a snap of pain attack the muscles. Her legs were spared from the assault, but they barely held her up. The target appeared to be far, very far, she scampered closer.

The muffled shrill of his voice, "If Jacob taught you any of that, then I believe you should listen to him, because he's a lot more talented when it comes to guns. He taught me most of what I know. When he found me, I barely knew how to hold up a gun without shooting my foot. And that happened anyway, unfortunately."

 _Fortunately._

She tongued a lost canine with bleak numbness, "Find you? Find you where?

He chuckled, "What? Are you asking about my background? No, don't do that." He stretched under the midday sun, "Now fire as quickly as you could. Don't think, just aim and fire."

She sighed, "You both seem to forget that nesting is more my style."

"You have to drop the technique. You've gotten yourself into a fast-paced vocation. We have no quarrels about patience, but it should only exist in scarce amounts when you're dealing with an actual threat."

She aimed at the target, and without an intake of breath, without trying to see through the hindrance of her bruised eyes, she fired. The bullet went somewhere, but definitely not near the target.

He tutted, "You need to practice more. This won't do."

She smiled and tried her luck, "Well, if you spared me from your beating yesterday, I would still be able to see the fucking target."

He hummed, and suddenly, a hand arrived at her shoulder, "You'll thank me, you'll mention me in your prayers."

She shrugged him off, "Thank you? For messing up my face? I'm afraid to look at the mirror. I'm pretty sure I'd find the arrangement switched." She wanted to roll her eyes, but it hurt too much to do that.

"You look just fine. Perhaps a bit peaked. But fine."

She clenched her aching jaw and turned to his direction, "Fine? I'm the one holding the rifle, don't test me with your mockery."

"You're blaming me for trying to boost your morale? And also, you won't be able to hit an elephant with this aim."

She clenched the weapon tighter, "If you weren't such a ridiculous twat, if you didn't kick me after using the bullshit excuse that it's beneficial, maybe then I'll shoot an eyelash off your stupid eyes."

He snorted, "I'd love to see you try. Go ahead, shoot me." He pulled at the barrel, and she got dragged with it. He put the end right under his waterline, "Shoot, shoot. I dare you to shoot. I dare you."

"And I dare you to kill me with more of your daily pummelling, I dare you."

He moved the barrel with a finger, then put it to his cheek. His hand slid down the barrel and reached her trigger finger. A spasm, and he's gone. So is the gauntlet. And probably her life, "You know you want to. You seek revenge as I once did. But you heard the man, revenge is not our way."

"You seemed to take exceptional pleasure in hammering me yesterday. Looks like revenge to me."

He then grinned, a complete, white set of teeth no one ever dared to knock out, in front of them were smooth lips that always smelled of either chocolate or cherry. He stroked the hand she kept at the trigger, and through the hazy blur, she found his pleased eyes, "You're becoming as keen as I want you to be, Maybelle. Keep it up, and you'll begin to know things no one should ever know."

* * *

Covent Garden Market was bustling with activity, as it has for the past two-hundred years. People clambered on top of each other to reach the ridiculously-discounted cart of apples, filling burlap sacks and broken crates and abandoned barrels with the ripe, crunchy fruits. A few unseen children snatched one or two fruits from the pile and bit down, the velvety, honey-like juices dripping down their chins. Beside that commotion, two house-mistresses haggled with a man selling red and green peppers.

Jacob walked through the tight paths the stalls left for customers. Men bumped into him, some carried baskets on their shoulders, others tried to control their children. He listened to the clamour of a nearby fruit vendor, he was selling oranges the size of the palm, do hurry up, limited quantity. He scoffed, of course it's limited, can it possibly be infinite?

As he exited the market, he munched an apple he bought from a more-expensive stall. He crossed the traffic and made his way to Russell Street. The play had started at seven, and if his new pocket watch was right, he was forty-two minutes late.

That delay was hardly for fashionable reasons, not that he wasn't a fashionable fellow. But it was meant to ruin any time-dependant plans Rosalie made. Be it a bomb, a timed assault, a fire to be started on que.

He arrived and cut through the small gathering of his fellow late-arrivals. He tightened his bowtie and fixed the somewhat-wide checkered trousers he picked up not long ago. His rook-topped black cane offered no support, but hid the blade that could end up inside Rosalie's guts by the end of the night—depending on the circumstances and his own mood. If his men managed to pull some strings, the guards at the doors won't pat him down for weapons. The colt 1860 was inside its holster, against the leather shoulder strap that itched his armpits. It was concealed behind his black long coat.

One of the standing guards looked at him, looked at his partner, then nodded, admitting him. Jacob walked in, suppressing an exhalation.

Inside, a young man took his ticket with a smile and appointed him a guide. The guide ushered him through the gold and red-velvet, empty, airy halls. The climbed a story until they stopped by one of the mid-eastern boxes slightly above the pit. A box-keeper stood by the door. Jacob sized him up and realized he couldn't be Rosalie's, but it's best to be careful.

"Sixpence, please." The usher said. Jacob handed him the money out of a pocket filled with loose change.

"Welcome to Theatre Royal, Mister." The box-keeper said as he opened the door. Jacob gave him sixpence and walked in.

The box overlooked the dazzling yellow of Theatre Royal. Above the two-thousand attendants, the theatre was lit by a humongous gaslight chandelier, hung from a meticulous ceiling. The design overhead was circular and seemed to light up on its own. On the 43 feet stage, Casca told Cicero of the wonderful sightings he witnessed. Unburnt slaves, men in flames, a lion, and birds of the night. Rosalie was alone.

Rosalie's stare was fixed on the painted backdrop depicting a stormy night, she scoffed, then took a pull from her cigarette, "I've seen better scenery, not a big fan of this director." She turned, "Don't you think so, Mr Frye?"

She looked slightly like Maybelle, but her hair was the color of coffee, and her skin was less pale. Her eyes were greenish-blue, the mixture of colors not unlike his own. Her thin lips were greased with some kind of gloss starch. Her cross pattée laid against her creamy neck. Her baby-blue dress hugged her figure, falling to her ankles.

She raised her brows, waiting, "Take a seat, Mr Frye. We have a lot to discuss."

Jacob pulled off his leather gloves and stuffed them in his front pocket. He sat in one of the four fixed, cushioned seats in the second row. Directly behind Rosalie.

"Mr Frye. A gentleman would sit by a lady." She tapped her cigarette over a crystal ashtray.

"Unless he's related to her, he's not even permitted to accompany her in a private area."

She practically giggled, "Well, you're not half the ruffian I thought you were."

"I have my moments." Jacob listened to Cassius' voice as he entered and said, 'Who's there?'.

"No matter. I will not busy myself with your snipes. You will take a seat beside me so we could begin."

"Begin what?"

"The most beneficial endeavour to align our thoughts."

Jacob sighed, then complied. This action will leave him exposed to the dangers of Rosalie's men, but the woman refused to speak otherwise.

He sat beside her and kept his hand around his cane. He watched the thin smoke swim about the air. She extinguished her half-cigarette in the ashtray and folded her hands on her lap.

She pouted, perhaps out of habit, "Before you get any shining ideas, Mr. Frye. I would like to bring your attention to a simple fact…"

"You got men watching over you, I know. So do I."

She smiled, then loosened her pout, "Then we're both mistrustful tyrants."

"It should be so."

They watched the play for a while, listening to the thunder and the booming voices of the actors. Cassius was announcing the position of his dagger. Jacob surveyed the audience. None of the men and women were masked, cloaked, or even underdressed for the occasion. His own men were dispersed. Some in the boxes opposite his, some close to the stage. They all kept pistols under their heavy coats. The entire setup costed a bag of pounds, but the opportunity was priceless. If Jacob didn't like what Rosalie had to say, he will kill her silently and depart as soon as he could.

"Alright, are your ears ready to hear my proposal?"

"Let's hear it."

Rosalie smacked her lips, "You have something I want, something that was in my… _my father's_ possession. I wouldn't ask for it, because I know it's priceless to you. Whatever offer, be it land, or money, or position, you will refuse. I will hazard an alternate route."

Jacob waited for her to continue, he kept his eyes on the audience. The thunder stopped.

"I will offer you the rare opportunity to merge our powers to take down my father. Then we'll contemplate about finding the artefact."

Jacob bristled and looked at her for the second time that evening. Was she serious? She seemed serious, with that tight frown and faraway look.

"You want to kill Hayward Willis?"

"Yes, I no longer want to associate with him. I believe I can operate on my own, with my own men that I've paid handsomely."

"But he's your father."

She smirked, "The old man never cared for anything but himself. Perhaps, once upon a time, he cared for mother. But now, he cares for nothing. He sits there while his wealth accumulates and his empire grows. He doesn't know how to handle his money, but I do." She swept a hand across the people before them, "Look at what I've bought with a few bracelets that no longer matched my dress. I bought myself a group of men that could kill you from Hampstead while you loiter in Greenwich."

He couldn't believe it. Ethan Frye might've been a pain, and indirectly continued to be one when his sister decided to follow in his footsteps. But he never contemplated killing him, never. It seemed like a far-fetched solution to get rid of a pesky relative.

"You want to kill the grandmaster, to what end? Taking over?" Jacob voiced her plans.

"Indeed. I believe it's time for a change in leadership. My father hasn't much time left on earth, anyway. When the time comes, he will hand the leadership to one of his men in London, maybe someone from Manchester or Hampshire will come to fill in. But never myself. I don't want men to come. The position is mine." She raised her voice, "And don't you attempt to mention that I'm a woman, and I'm not fit to rule the British Templars."

"It's not that you're a woman, it's just that you're unreasonable."

Her cheeks became red, "How am I unreasonable?"

"You want to kill your own father. This is something most people consider unreasonable."

"There's no other way."

Well, she could try outsmarting him, but he doubted she'd be able to do that.

Jacob waited, then shook his head, "Say I agreed to work with you. How would you split the spoils? It's one artefact and two… or maybe three of us."

"Ah, I hope my foster sister is treating you well?"

"She sends her regards."

"I miss her. We used to play in the garden when no one's looking. Ruin the gardener's hard work and pluck unripe flowers."

"You don't miss her, if you miss her, you wouldn't have tried to kill her in Southwark." He thought about the possible bond between her men and Remy Cain's. She knew her team of hired mercenaries was smaller than any, so she tried to merge it with someone else's. At least she wasn't naïve.

Rosalie paused, then her eyes alighted with a smile, "You know it was me."

"It's rather obvious…" He said, "One of your men came to deliver your invitation, he was almost identical to the sniper on the roof."

She shrugged, "Still, it takes some knowledge to connect the dots."

In Brutus' orchard, the politician sat and likened Caesar to a serpent's egg, dangerous when hatched. He planned to kill him in the shell. Rosalie leaned forward and clung to his every word. Jacob didn't need to see the play twice to understand what influenced Rosalie.

"So, the artefact." Jacob said, crossing his legs.

"Yes… well," She listened then moved back, her dress rustling, "I intend to sell the artefact, I'll have sixty-five percent, because the map belongs to me."

"It belongs to your father."

"And thus, to me." She looked at him poisonously, "Then, our business is finished."

Jacob sat quiet for a moment, then began chuckling. His shoulders shook. He ignored Rosalie's stares. He took an unsteady breath, "You want to sell a Piece of Eden? Really? What about the Templar interest in such artifacts? Do you throw all that away to get a bit of money?"

"A bit?" She scoffed, "That thing is priceless. It will make me the richest woman alive."

"What if I told you, I wanted the artefact for the assassins. I wanted it in one piece, and away from the filthy hands of a certain conniving organization?"

"Then we have nothing to say to each other."

"I figured." He toyed with his cane, "Too bad, I wanted to take our relationship to the next level. I thought we'll come out of this happy and smelling like a Rose. I thought you'd be a smart woman with a head for business. I thought you'd put something on the table and I'll never be able to back out. Turns out, you're not even a proper Templar."

Jacob could almost hear Rosalie's teeth grinding.

She pointed to the audience, "You see there? Twenty-second row, wearing a grey suit? That's one of my men. And there, to the back, three men in black, all hatless. If you misbehave, I'll have them cut you down."

"Thank you for the tip. Now, I'll be sure to avoid them, and to direct my men towards them."

Rosalie sucked in a breath, then hissed. Her greenish eyes almost bulged, "Listen, Mr. Frye. You have until after Brutus stabs Caesar to consider my proposal. 'Et tu, Brute!' is your alarm. Then you'll be hunted, you and the traitorous woman that was once my sister. You will die in your sleep, when you perceive no threat and let your guard down. We will come to you in your frailest moments. We will be your enemies."

"Get in line, Rose."

His fingers itched—he wanted to unveil the sword from its long sheath and carve out her insides, but that would raise too much attention and he'd be surrounded by coppers. He _will_ find her again, and he will kill her. Jacob feared the notion of Rosalie gaining the Templar crown more than he feared her men. The outcomes of her reign would be simply catastrophic.

Jacob ignored Rosalie's offer to wait until Brutus killed his friend, he had seen too many traitors in his time.

And so, it was the first assassination Jacob refused to see.

* * *

Maybelle looked over the edge, at the downward spiral that led to the far, but near ground, "What are we doing on the roof?" She gulped.

He glided behind her, a trait of assassin locomotion, but he had his own signature written upon it—a coiling feeling of dread whenever he approached, "Jacob sends me letters each day. Some about his progress, some about the gang, and some about you. Things I already know." He purred.

Her lips trembled. Her eyes were healing—the bruises were still raw and painful to the touch, but she could see the dreadful scene spread before her, "Like what? Where he found me? What I've done? Lies about our relationship?"

"Nie, your fears."

She inhaled as the powerful realization washed over her.

"My fears. Heights. Isolation. Lemonade."

He hummed, "There's more."

"If there's more, I don't know them."

"No one knows the list of their fears, nor the full potential of them. Everyone fears something. Death, closed spaces, sickness, death of loved ones, an abandoned house, fire, water, wind. There's a ghost haunting everyone's mind, clinging to their backs. It is only when you turn around and face it will you prevail." He snatched the small cap from her head, a green paperboy that matches the olive of the Rooks. He let it fall to the ground, and his fingers slithered around her neck.

She breathed in, "I'm not facing that ghost, not this one."

"Then it will haunt you forever more."

She found it hard to swallow, his fingers wrapped tighter, "Then let it, I don't care. I could walk a billion miles on burning coals than face a high place."

He snapped, "Here's your fear, do you see it?! It's mocking you!" He pointed to the ground, pushing her closer to the edge, "Do you see it?!"

She struggled, but he held on, "I see it, Will. I know it's there!"

"Can it hurt you?! Can it hurt you after I taught you how to land?!"

Her body began to shake with sobs, "Yes, yes it can. I saw what it can do, I saw it. Don't make me experience it, please."

"Learn to not only control your fear, but to brutally murder it, to let it yield to you, kneel to your benevolence. This is your ultimate enemy. It's not Willis, it's not me or Jacob or anyone, it's yourself. It's what thoughts you weave, it's what you tell yourself and the maze you create. Going back and forth with garbled thoughts and jumbled presumptions. You let the ghost overtake you and dominate your absolute being. But when you finally face it, when you spit in its face and free yourself from the binds will you be unending. Unstoppable. Fear is an old device to keep a human being in check, fear is an inherent instinct created by our precursor captors before recorded time. We need to forget, _you_ need to forget." He shook her, "Nothing matters, not the heights, not the scary man with the sharp knife, not lemonade, _nothing_. Only you, screw everyone and everything."

He pressed her face to the raised edge of the flat roof, she looked at the sanctity beyond. "What about dying? Fear keeps dying at bay."

"We're all dying, Maybelle, be realistic."

She sighed, closing her eyes. Her heart drummed against her aching ribs, "I'm not abandoning my fears, you're a madman. Without fear, everyone would be dead in a matter of seconds."

"Yet, I'm still alive."

She scoffed, sweat stuck her hair to her forehead, "You must fear something, you just said that everyone does."

"Would the maker of illnesses accidently have them? I create fears, I don't submit to my creations."

But despite everything, Maybelle didn't fear him. She feared the thought of his blade retracting and tracing the veins in her neck, she feared his unyielding knuckles, but fear the thought of him? The soul of him? His foreboding coldness evaporated from her skin, she doesn't fear him. That's right, she doesn't fear him.

"You don't create fears."

He hummed, stroking her neck, "You don't know a thing about me, Willis. Look at your salvation, look at it—it's the ground behind this edge. You will breath for the first time, and a veil will be lifted from your eyes, you will be absolutely free. No captors, no ghosts, nothing. Just you against this horrible world. But you know what? That horrible world will fear you, because you'd have the boasting rights—I conquered my fears, I abandoned them. I made them a background event."

"Will—"

"Nothing ever matters. _Nic_. Nothing..."

"Will! Stop!"

"…But yourself."

He picked her up, an elongated, frail thing. She squirmed and squirmed, adrenaline flooding her system. A cat held over rushing water. And when she was fully over the edge, he let go.

The world turned into a minuscule painting, in a huge museum, in another universe. The only reality was gravity, pulling her down, drowning her, sending air she couldn't contain up her nostrils. Will's pale eyes watched her, the only audience witnessing her destruction. A million miles away he became, a luminescent figure, a stranger. She thought she began to float, a magical ability awakening and keeping her away from her doom, but the idea faded. Leaving her with the desolate reality, a rigid veracity, that she will die. She will die. She wrapped her hands around the back of her head, and curled into a ball, a breathtaking wave danced under her skin, ached her bones to the marrow, knocked the air out of her lungs. She closed her eyes, midnight falling, calling. She heard another fall, a light one with barely a sound, the thump of sturdy boots. She opened her eyes to look. The sky was timid, cloudy. The world trembled around her in either fear or ideas to kill the blasphemous. Will appeared above her, devoid of emotion.

"Might as well choose a new name, because you are reborn."

* * *

There is a feeling of lost desperation that you can find once or twice in a lifetime. It waits, watches as the body wilts and the mind festers with unheeded cravings. The first time it attacks, you feel as if you found a unicorn, a unicorn with flames for a mane and a snake's glare for eyes. It waited through Maybelle's enslavement and through her simple life in Nottingham, and it would've waited more, but third-party interference made its patience run dry.

She was practicing by the shooting range under the midday sun. Rooks clumped in three, readying themselves for that day's hauls. Someone trickled a chamber pot's contents into the Thames, puffed, and moved back inside. In the distance, a dog barked as it chased a screaming woman, people laughed as they ran after them. Will approached. Of course, she could almost taste the air he roused as he arrived. So, she was not surprised when he put a hand on the barrel of her rifle.

"Still trying to prove yourself to a band of veterans?"

She lowered her gun, "Won't forgive myself if I didn't try." She avoided his gaze.

"And how are your feeble attempts going?"

"Good."

She knew he was watching her go through her routine—have breakfast, run around the building, practice shooting. While he 'exercises' in a nearby brothel after breakfast. Then it's time to do whatever he wanted her to. She guessed he came early. Literally.

"Cut to the chase. What is it that you want to inflict on me today? Is it fire? Water? Maybe boredom is killing you and you want me to stand in front of the bullseye?"

The overwhelming need to look at him got the best of her, she looked at him and found his grey eyes, which were gleaming with a fantasy he will never share with anyone. Maybe it's for the best. Not many people wanted to know what brewed in Will's head.

"I've been thinking about your future, lately."

She clutched the rifle harder, "I don't think I'll have much of a future if you keep putting my life in danger."

He put on the fakest smile, "It's for your own good."

"Yes, you said that."

"You must know that I'm eligible to hear Jacob's plans about the Rooks, himself, or you. But I think you already know that. What you don't know is the very real possibility of losing the race. Somehow, the Templars might outsmart us, or outrun us. Maybe the artifact had lost its potential after a moment in time. It's a gamble, depending on an ancient promise, planning the rest of your existence around it."

Maybelle inclined her head, "What's your point, Will? If you're trying to talk me out of it, you'd be…" She wanted to call him an idiot, a man who lost his mind, who thinks he has the world in his palm.

He ignored the insult that never got out, "My point is—I'm more worried about your future than you are yourself. I want to help you get through the risk of spending the rest of your life lost in a dream."

If she was smarter, she'd turn around and walk as far away from him as possible. If she was dumber, she'd shoot him.

She did neither.

Will continued, "Alright, say that you got the artifact, what then?"

He wanted to know? Why? Why is it suddenly his business?

"You never cared about my plans. Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know because it became my best interest to see you succeed, to see you thrive." He put an unwelcome hand on her shoulder.

"That seems like rubbish. If you wanted me to succeed, you wouldn't try to cripple me every day."

"May… I don't like to repeat myself. It takes too much breath and time."

She sighed, "And how can you help me?"

His steel eyes softened, as if he knew she would finally budge. He reached in his pocket and pulled a piece of paper, "I'm compiled a list of activities you can practice to provide for yourself. You need a fortune to live the rest of your life in safety. If heights aren't killing you, people who want your artefact will."

She thought about that. He might be correct. If it was all a legend, she didn't know if she'd be ready to get back up on someone's roof with a rifle on her back. And if was a true story, she wanted a place back home to grow old in. She shrugged and snatched the paper from Will.

She opened it and began reading.

 _\- M.P. Delacroix Jewel Emporium, H._

 _\- Mr. Benjamin Gallagher, Ext. R._

 _\- Leigh Deleon, H.M.S, Korovin Dmitry_

"Um, Will. What is this?" Her brows furrowed at the words. She reread them, they still didn't make any sense.

"These are assignments, make your choice."

She looked at him, his permanent scowl returned, and he was glaring at her like he glared at everyone. At least she didn't hit a nerve… yet.

"I don't understand half… no, scratch that, _all_ of what's written. What's… M.P? What acronym is this?"

Will sighed and grasped the paper, he rolled his eyes, "M.P. Delacroix is a jewellery store in Bermondsey. This one's a heist. Go with four other Rooks, one drives your getaway, one looks out for the rest, and three lift whatever they can fit and hurry out as fast as possible. Income is divided many times after it's laundered, but it's still a hefty sum. My intel returned positive output on this one. I saved it up for you."

Maybelle blinked at him, she thankfully didn't possess the audacity to empty her rifle against him, "Okay. You're a spy that analyses people like a crime scene, but you haven't figured that I don't steal?" She draped the rifle's strap over her shoulder, "Let me clarify it, then. I don't steal. Send someone else."

"There's jewels the size of Wandsworth in the display cases."

"I don't care."

He paused, probably debating on whether he should beat some sense into her, but looked at the paper again, "Benjamin Gallagher runs a spice shop in Greenwich. We need someone to remind him of the situation at hand. If he doesn't pay up by Tuesday, we got a big problem. Wear a lot of metal under your clothes to trick him into thinking they're weapons."

"Skip."

He clenched his teeth, "Leah Deleon in Chelsea wants to hire a hitman to—"

"Stop right there, I don't want anything to do with that."

Will swung a random, livid hook at May. She practically toppled and gripped her cheek, stoic, wide-eyed. The rifle fell from her, the smack resonated across the yard. Rooks turned to look at the pair, now silent. Maybelle felt her cheeks grow hot. She seized the rifle, straightened, and shoved the front sight of her rifle against Will's chest. Her fingertip brushed the trigger, and—

She couldn't do it. Will knew that. He eyed her with painstaking boredom, bluish-grey eyes, speckled with green, which she wanted to gouge out and string into a necklace. He stared at her, impassive. She pulled her rifle and tossed it to the side. She straightened and fixed her clothing—which needed some serious washing and ironing, and eyed him with the same indifference. When a third of the Rooks continued their activities, Maybelle punched Will as hard and as fast as she could. It was like a wasp sting, and the resulting pain manifested in Will's reddening skin. His nose didn't bleed or even break, which Maybelle found odd. He was frozen. She moved sideways and raised her fists.

It was as if time had forgotten about him. He stood there, with a plain look on his face, as if he was seated in an omnibus, and suddenly, he looked up at her with a ready scowl. He punched back, then punched again, her chin throbbed. She almost fell back, but regained her balance. She pushed forward and tackled Will with an ear-splitting scream, she fell on top on him and he shielded his face with two arms as she hurled a flurry of punches his way. He rolled them and the roles switched, he punched her the same way he did underground. Third punch, Maybelle remembered the unspeakable pain and the weeks of healing, she brought her leg between them and pushed him with her foot. She shoved him with her hands until he finally hovered two inches above her, enough for her to roll away. Maybelle scrambled away and attempted to stand, but friction didn't help her. When she managed to stand and turn to him, Will had produced a revolver out of nowhere and aimed it at her.

Maybelle burst laughing.

She doubled over, and tried to suck in mouthfuls of air. Her lungs felt they were about to burst, she stumbled as she tried to straighten. Will still held her under gunpoint. Every single man and woman looked their way, Maybelle ignored them and laughed again, pointing at Will and mumbling. She held up her hand to stop Will from becoming trigger happy, because while Jacob warned them both about that, Will might not be sane enough to comprehend. Her laughs came in short bursts, unable to come out in one breath because her body strived for oxygen.

She stopped shaking with laughter, and scowled at Will. She tasted blood. He didn't lower the gun, but a sceptical look adorned his sweat-coated face. One brow was raised while the other touched his eyelid. His head was tilted like a confused puppy. Maybelle supressed a giggle.

She looked to her left, noting the many eyes that watched in a mix of worry and interest. She ignored Will's gun, bent down, picked up the fallen paper, and reread it for two seconds.

"Tell this Leah Deleon she got a hitman. Tell her to break the bank, or his target, this Korovin Dmitry fellow, will get a hitman instead."

* * *

King's road could be seen to the south-west. It was decently occupied. Men walked their dogs and waited as the small animals greeted one another or marked their territory. A man and his wife walked, hand in arm, dressed in pastel colors and heading to have tea at their friend's house. Two men waited to enter their hansom cab, both gesturing towards the open door and bowing, waiting for one another to take the invitation. The cab driver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Trafalgar square was behind Maybelle. The afternoon sun was faint and lovely against her cheeks.

The Chelsea Infirmary was in front of her, adjacent to Arthur street, and if someone were to walk a pace, the Chelsea workhouse as well as Town Hall would be before them. It was all part of the irony. Leah Deleon—which turned out to be a man, wants his Russian adversary shot inside a circle of institutions that could help him. Not the muscles of the workhouse, nor the life-saving operations of the infirmary, nor the justice of Town Hall could save him from the bullet that will go through his brain. Though Will adhered to the principle of never questioning the client, he did have a theory. One way or another, Leah became a broken man after the Crimean war, and wanted to slay this particular Russian. A family feud, or a deep-rooted hatred that stretches centuries before the war. Either way, one man wants the other killed in the most mocking way, Maybelle agreed to serve.

As to why, Maybelle pondered that question while she wiped her scope free of dust that covered it after scaling the wall of the small flat. If it was any higher, Maybelle would've reconsidered the assignment. In fact, if she had another choice, she wouldn't be on a roof, readying her ammo and rolling up her sleeves. After Will stopped watching her (Thankfully, he refused to be a hypocrite, and she wasn't called a madwoman), they discussed the terms. Mr. Deleon offered the Rooks one hundred and eighty-five pounds as well as ten more to cover expenses. Maybelle's cut will be seventy-two pounds while the rest is spread across everyone who had a hand in the proceedings. Will, as Jacob's secretary and unhinged hooligan, will take about fifteen pounds. Jacob will take ten just for being the boss. The remaining eighty-eight pounds will go to her getaway driver, the warehouse keeper, and the Rooks as a whole.

It was a decent enough payment, and it will secure her well-being for a good while until she finds a place to settle, or maybe she'd spend it all to leave London and find work elsewhere.

Either way, someone had to die. A month and a half, before she even came into the picture, went into planning ten seconds. An ornate carriage will haul Mr. Korovin Dmitry across Arthur street, she will ruin his brains with a well-timed .44 Winchester bullet. People passing be would either investigate or flee, probably the latter. Workers will come out of their buildings to look, but maybe not the inhabitants of the workhouse. They would be toiling in their little community, but will probably pile up at the windows.

"Don't muck this up." Will Franczak had told her, "I'm putting a lot on the line so you could reap some backup money." But Maybelle knew Will was not the kind of person to endanger the health of his responsibilities so one of his frenemies gets some cash in her pocket. It was likely that he doesn't want to admit her skill with a rifle. He busies himself with pointing out her _lack_ of skill in everything else, and Maybelle doesn't expect him to do otherwise.

Maybelle cracked her neck, she crouched on the edge of the terracotta roof and waited. The incline was steep, but Maybelle had clambered to stand at the horizontal top with the smoking chimneys and tiny trapdoors that led to a family of seven. She had tossed the rifle's leather case behind a large chimney. She watched as carriages flitted across the street. Sometimes, a police wagon would dart by and miss her shadowy presence, which suited her just fine.

Eventually, Dmitri's carriage arrived, and just on time, as promised. Heading to King's road, the stunning black carriage glided across Arthur street, the two dark horses drawing it moving at a rhythmic trot. Carved golden birds, flying towards a fixed spot, were attached to the ornate vehicle that seemed to disappear whenever it passed by an alley. The red curtains were drawn just as they should be, but if rules of etiquette and comfort were to be trusted, he'd be facing the horses, reclining on the right seat and having a smoke.

As the carriage cut through the murky street and passed by the infirmary, people crossing the streets waited for the carriage to pass, noting its lavish decorations and the quality of the drapes, which were a challenging hindrance to Maybelle. Wasting no more time, Maybelle readjusted her stance, spread her foot and knee one foot apart, and cocked her rifle. The butt rested against her armpit and she took a deep breath. She had five seconds left, otherwise she would have to chase the carriage on rooftop until it slowed somewhere.

She chased the draped window with her sights, carefully aiming for the predicted position of the man. She almost pulled the trigger, until her unease with her assignment finally emerged. The man inside a carriage probably has a family, he's a privileged, insufferable individual with an ever-expanding waistline, but otherwise, he's a harmless human being. She thought about her own future, and wondered if somewhere on Earth, a golden gauntlet exactly the shape of her arm was waiting for her. Time seemed to pause and her ears heard no more. She stilled and fired just as the carriage crossed the infirmary.

She didn't wait to see if her aim was true, she almost slipped as she hurried to the leather case, and she let out a little yelp. Maybelle unscrewed the scope and shoved it with the rifle inside. She slung it over her shoulder and almost departed, but she saw what seemed to be the reflection of her standing on the infirmary's white rooftop. She glanced again and confirmed her assumption, against the smoke and the golden glow of the fading sun and the few lit buildings, her doppelganger watched her. The figure was swathed in black, its features completely obscure, it's face a vortex, like an unlit road at midnight. A rifle was in its hands.

Maybelle heard the shouts of men below. The figure raised its dreadful weapon, Maybelle darted behind the chimney just in time. The bullet grazed the chimney's tiled edge. Maybelle refused to scream. Police patrolled the ward day and night. Just as the second bullet bounced off the rooftop, Maybelle tore through the cooling, stagnant air and began to descend. She kept her eyes at the infirmary's rooftop and hoped the dusty ledges of the building were firm enough. She landed in a puddle of murky water. As she ran towards the getaway carriage, she felt someone's sights on her back. Maybelle entered. The green-clothed driver spurred the horses, his urgency informed Maybelle he had heard the other gunshots.

The Rook in front of her spoke, "Is everything alright, miss? We heard three gunshots."

"An… ambush." Maybelle wheezed.

The man's eyes widened, "What kind?"

"I've seen it before…" I'm being chased, she wanted to add, but she was exhausted. A police wagon darted past them, unaware.

"We'll take care of it, I'll inform our master and he will take care of it."

"Thank you."

Even when they were miles away, Maybelle could've sworn she felt a form stalking her all the way to one of Chelsea's headquarters.

* * *

While Maybelle was tending to Leah's bloody urges, the Rooks were attempting a well-planned heist. The one she refused to partake in. She had climbed to Jacob's bedchamber and began devouring strawberry-and-vanilla pastries bought legally from a nearby bakery. She had tossed her unloaded Winchester out the window and slammed it shut before she heard the crash and the lectures. Whenever she looked at it, she remembered a widow and some orphans huddling somewhere in London because of her.

Will entered with a wooden box cushioned with velvet. He laid it open before her and she eventually looked down. It was filled with nine jewels of varying colors and sizes. Imperial Topaz the size of her thumbnail, deep purple Tanzanite, a few diamonds, bloody Hessonite, and aquamarine so clear, it exposed the reddish hue of the velvet it sat in. Will slammed the lid on her curious fingers.

"Next time, listen to me when I tell you there's good loot."

"I did listen to you. I killed a man because you told me to."

"No, you didn't. He's still alive."

Maybelle's mouth went dry.

"What? What do you mean he's still alive?"

"I mean you missed, why is that so hard to grasp?"

"Because it's not possible! I fired exactly where he was going to be, and where he—"

"So, you don't believe that you could make a mistake? You don't believe that you missed, is that it? Get off your high horse."

No, this isn't happening. He's dead, Will is toying with her, or lying to her so he wouldn't have to give her a cut.

"I was distracted, by that maniac sniper that fired at me. Ask the Rooks, they heard the gunshots and two of them wasn't mine."

"As far as the Rooks told me, a bullet pierced the carriage's curtains, _then_ two bullets came from the opposite side. The distraction came later, _much_ later. You simply missed." He looked at her with a disappointed glare. She felt sick to her stomach. Not only did she fail to prove herself in front of Will Franczak, but she failed to prove it to herself that she wasn't losing her touch. Word will probably reach Jacob, as well, and he'll realize how much of a failure she is.

Her nails scrapped the surface of the table, Will shoved the box to the side. He looked at her, folding his hands, expecting a reply. But she didn't have one. She stared at his hands, then at her own, shaking as she curled them into fists.

"Don't feel bad, there's always more to do. There's doing the dishes, and helping the cook prepare vegetables, and emptying the chamber pots, and cleaning the privy…"

"Will, enough, I get it. You expected more, I'm sorry for disappointing you, but I—"

"What? Didn't give it your all? Lost focus? Hesitated?"

At the last word, Maybelle visibly bristled. She refused to look at Will. She bit her lip, choking back a sudden urge to cry. No, she thought, you're stronger than this, you can't cry in front of him, you're not a baby.

Yet she felt frustrated, ashamed, she spent many nights with a rifle in her hand, how could she miss? How?

"You hesitated… you had many minutes to prepare, but instead you thought about the aftermath of what you were doing. Whether it was the coppers, the witnesses, or the victim himself. Is that it? You felt guilty? Guilty because you were given an enormous sum to end a rivalry?"

"Will, please. I get it, I failed." She nearly shook from anger, and tried her best to keep it in.

"No, I don't think you get it. I don't think you get that the mission has just tripled in difficulty. The target will be surrounded by guards now. Eighteen in his bedchamber alone. It'll be downright impossible for the Rooks or anyone at all to score a hit on that man. All because you missed."

Alright, that's it. She told him she got it, she really did. Why does he keep adding salt to her wounds? Isn't the shameful sting of failing at her lifelong skill painful enough?

"Will, shut up, you son of a—"

No, she couldn't do it. He'll disembowel her.

His eyes widened, he leaned forward, brows knitting, "What? Say it. Son of a what?"

Maybelle said nothing.

Will scoffed, "Not only a failure, but also a coward."

Something in her snapped. Maybelle lunged over the table, finding his smooth neck. The chair fell down, Will and Maybelle with it. She grabbed him by the collar, dragging him with surprising strength away from the chair.

She fell on top of him and lost herself as she pummelled him with repeating punches, grunting. Anytime her fists connected, she felt her anger draining a lick. Will barely fought back, and instead let her work on rearranging his face the way she sees fit. His blood splattered over her face, coming out of his nose, mouth, even eyes. Her knuckles hurt, she barely blinked, and the heavy weight of anger pressed on her chest so hard that she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, couldn't stop. You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch. Stop insulting me. Stop telling me how useless I am. Stop making me realize that years and years of painful slavery wasn't enough to make me a good sniper. You stupid mutton-monger, you madman. I hate you! I hate you!

But her vision momentarily cleared, and she saw the horror she created. His eyes were bloodshot, and a sore, red mark was in the whites of the left one, as if something sharp cut through it. She looked at her nails, there was blood caked under them, drying up, looking forebodingly black. Her knuckles were soaked red, with bits of congealed, darker blood sticking between them. She looked back at him, blood dripping from his cheeks like tears, collecting on the ground. He laughed, she hasn't knocked out a tooth, but his gums were bleeding from various tiny pokes, framing his stark white teeth.

"Why'd you stop?" He asked her, her eyes welled up with tears. Both because the blood splatters managed to cloud her vision, and because she felt too disgusted with herself to even listen to Will, "I didn't ask you to stop."

"Shut. Up."

"No, I won't shut up," he suddenly grabbed her thighs, barely holding them in a weak, shaking clutch, "You started this, why don't you finish it?"

"Finish… what?" She grimaced.

"Finish unloading your anger on me, like I did on you. Finish getting your revenge."

She looked into his eyes, but she knew he couldn't see her. That's what happened when she was on the receiving end—she couldn't see straight for days.

Yet here he was, asking for more, but…

"Why? Why do you want me to do that?"

"Because you're making me proud. You couldn't let me get away with mutilating you, so here you are, retaliating… not forgetting what happened, taking your… revenge…" He coughed up blood, and spit it to the side, "You're becoming more and more like me, I'm proud of you, kitten."

Her face went pale, she escaped his feeble hold and left him bleeding on the ground. She barely looked back at the scene she created, a bloodied man that looked on the brink of death—or perhaps looked dead for some time. She couldn't believe what she'd done. The slick feeling of Will's blood on her fingers was unreal, taboo, even, because she thought he was an untouchable man that no one even dared look at him the wrong way. And she was the first, probably the only, to hit him until he couldn't recognize himself in the mirror.

What is she becoming?


	21. Chapter 21

Days later, Maybelle and Will sat at a table in Jacob's under-furnished bedchamber. It had smelled acutely of dust, before his arrival some weeks before. The king bed was gone, replaced by two separate beds when she protested against sleeping right next to him.

Will studied a familiar spike, in front of him on the table, with fascination. He ran a digit along the blade, smirking.

She had a bad feeling about this, "Why did you fetch this from the shipment?"

He took a while to notice her, "I told you I understood your addictions, remember that?"

"Yes, I remembered that quite well while you tried to squeeze out all my blood with one stomp."

He ignored the remark, "I told you so because I have addictions of my own. Why else would anyone understand a corruption such as this? Pure-hearted people are a rarity."

She looked at the same item, the fear spike, barely lit by the faraway candle. He almost drooled at the sight.

"Are you telling me you prick yourself on purpose with these?"

"I suppose I couldn't have made it more obvious."

She remembered her recurring vision—the glass tower, the falling, falling. The blood, the pain, the utter isolation. And the only real thing in the midst of a marsh of illusions—fear.

"I'm sorry, but are you out of your goddamn mind?" Yes, yes he is. She thought. Of course, he is. He is at least unhinged, at most a criminal madman on the loose.

"I must ask the same of you. Opium? Really? Why not a drug that would make you less vulnerable?"

She clenched her teeth, only the thought of Stocker came to mind, "I fell into that loop because all of my squad did."

He thought about that for a moment, then said, "First time I tried this poison, I liked it so much because it helped me cope with my fears. No… not cope, it helped me defeat them. I stopped, for a while. But lately…"

"You said once that you had no fears, why are you still doing this, then?"

"It's been a while."

Maybelle let that sink in, "I see… so, what spooked you, recently?"

He looked away, sighing, "Something new."

He lifted some bunched-up strips of leather from his lap, and placed them beside the spike. "Usually, the pretty blonde, Jessamine, helps me with this. She wanted something in return, as you would, after this."

She blinked, "Excuse me?"

"You're going to tie me to this chair and prick me with the spike—"

"No, you're on your own, Will."

" _Proszę_ , if you do this, I'll bring you as much opium as you could smoke before passing out. I need this, I need it now."

She eyed him thoroughly, "I've never heard of someone getting addicted to fear."

"I'm not addicted to fear, I'm addicted to battling it. To see it melt before my eyes. Fear is the harvester of souls. Fear can control a nation, and I'll be damned if I let it control me."

"I see…" It's not that she hasn't heard this from him before, it's just that she's becoming more acquainted to the idea of facing her fears. If she had no fears, would she be on this hellish, unending journey to reach the gauntlet?

"Then, what do you say? If you give me what I need, I'll give you what you need. I have too many connections. Most of them know owners of dens and dealers in the black market, assassins for hire, thieves, prostitutes, you name it. I can get you anything you want as soon as you announce it."

She looked at the spike, it's as if the notion mocked her and seduced her all at once. Say yes, you moron, please say yes.

 _Say no,_ "Yes, I'll help you."

"Brilliant. You align yourself with the correct people—at least I know you won't mess up that particular aspect." He slid the strips to her, "Tie me. And I want you to double-cross me, and take advantage of my imprisonment, so I could enjoy dropping the Opium deal."

"Whatever." She took the bindings and rose. He leaned back in preparation, arms on armrests, head looking straight. She sighed and untangled the mess, and began tying his left arm. He eyed her, a mix of threats and thanks. She made sure the first binding is tight, tasting her own apprehension. She finished the rest of his limbs, then stood. Her muscles ached from his beating, her nose was permanently bent, and her pride was still forgotten somewhere in that crammed, bloody cellar. That everchanging torture chamber. She _could_ kill him right then and there. Stab him to death with what he liked the most, but what of the gauntlet, what of Jacob and his odd love for his madman? She couldn't. She wouldn't.

"What are you waiting for, _Zrób to_!"

But…

She put her hand around his neck, feeling his Adam's apple bob in apprehension. She pushed his neck towards the chair, trapping his head. He gulped again. She looked at him, empty. Fingers dug into his skin, sporting short nails, clipped to the flesh because the smell of blood wouldn't go away. He looked at her as if he knew what she wanted to do, and why would he not? She hated him, and he hated her back. He berated her constantly, on what she put in her system, on how she fought, on everything. And she insulted him many times a day, calling him a bastard, a madman, a demon.

She could kill him.

As if reading her mind, he said, "You know, Jacob will be cross with you if you kill me, he might even kill _you_."

"Oh, I'll take my chances. I'll just tell him you did it to yourself. Left one hand free so you could inject the poison, then you died of overdose."

He smiled, "Would he believe you?"

"He might, or might not. Either way, you'll be dead. One moment you'll be breathing and joking about your own death, and the other, you'd have a gaping hole on the side of your neck. And there's nothing, _nothing_ you can do about it. Aren't you afraid of that? Isn't that enough fear for today?" She leaned in unknowingly, almost breathing his air. Steel eyes went mellow and watched her, half-lidded and lost.

She let go.

She lifted the spike, a shiver ran down her spine at the familiarity. The smell was a poison she came to dread. Even the cold weight of it in her hand was familiar.

She flipped the spike in her hand, put the tip into position against his shoulder. He was wearing his pale coat, his favorite, the one with his mother's photo tucked in somewhere. Yet he didn't shrug it off, he didn't care if the spike tore it to pieces. He's a madman. She plunged the spike as one would a syringe, surely, firmly. She let the poison soak into his blood, then pulled the spike, noting how his shoulder painted red. The spike dripped blood, she tossed it on the table and sat across of him.

The beast was awakening. His eyes were wide-open, seeing her in all her rejecting, repulsed, hypocritical glory. She failed to see herself through him—a man dependent on a substance. Able to face the monsters of the world alone, preaching about it, only because he used a poison to empower him. To her, he was a broken man with whatever past that broke him, an irreversible maniac. She skipped over the notion that they were alike. She saw him convulse and spasm, the chair creaking every time he moved, as visions erupted before him. Turning the room into a nightmare he basked in, coloring Maybelle's face into a demon, a ghost, a death-bearer. He _loved_ it. Of course, he did. Absolutely chaotic, imprisoned, and given his dose. When will it end, May asked herself. When can I go the hell to sleep and forget everything? When can I go to bed yet stay awake until dawn because I need something that needs me back?

Blood dripped down his shoulder, yet she didn't bother to do something about it. She didn't care. She needed a hit. She needed the gauntlet. She needed Jacob's stupid routines that paled in comparison to the world that Will introduced. The road wasn't paved with dangers—there wasn't a road at all.

Suddenly, his entire body shook, and his neck fell to the side. His eyes closed, his face became pale. May barely noticed a heartbeat in the bulging veins on his bluish hands. Maybe it's the bindings? She rose slowly and grabbed the spike, and cut the wrist bindings, then the ankle bindings. Will's head fell back, mouth opening. She tossed the spike and stood, taking his head in her hands. Two fingers slid down and measured his heartbeat, it was faint, and slowing. May's own heartbeat quickened, dread creeping up her system. She grabbed Will's shoulders and pulled him out of the chair as gently as she could—not gently enough. His limp body fell on top of hers, she grunted, then slowly turned him to rest on his back.

She swept hair out of her eyes, and crawled closer to him, to his barely breathing, barely twitching body. She took him in her arms, not unlike the many times Jacob held her as she recovered. She never knew she'd looked so dead in Jacob's arms, so pale. Or maybe she didn't… maybe Will is really dead, or about to die.

She looked at his face, behind the scratches and bumps she gave him in their most recent scuffle, the permanent scowl was just an imprint between his brows, a tiny wrinkle. His thick lips were chapped and barely grazed by a breath. She parted his lids, his steel irises were rolled back, she saw only the bloodshot whites.

The hand she placed on his cheek was shaking, she blinked back tears of dread and sorrow. No, you can't die, not like… not like this…

"Will, wake up. Come on, wake up…" she patted his cheek, biting her lip so hard she felt it left a mark, "William…" her fingers drifted to his hair, the locks he always mussed whether he felt anxious or confidant, angry or content. They were soft, like the feathers of a bird. A tear fell onto his collar, Maybelle closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, "Will! Wake up! Please!" She lifted him closer, his chin rested on her shoulder, "Please... I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I'm sorry I did this to you… I wish you haven't asked for it… I…"

He was dying, his heartbeat was decreasing more and more. Was she crying because his death meant hers as well? No. She wasn't afraid of Jacob's warnings. She could run, she'd lose the gauntlet, but she'd keep her life. No… she was crying because… she couldn't fathom. She wanted him dead, wanted to drink in the sight of life leaving his eyes. And here he was, almost dead, clinging to the faintest hint of life that still coursed through his blood. And she's crying over his dying body. What's wrong with her? Were a few weeks in his hell enough to change her completely? To look up to him as she once did Stocker? To cry and blame herself if something happened to him? She needed to get a hold of herself.

Five minutes, but it felt like hours upon hours of soaking his damn coat with tears, the one that smelled like him and like her at the same time. Five minutes, and she felt his hand twisting in her jacket, "What're you crying about, _kochanie_?"

She bit back a sob, and squeezed her eyes shut, "You, you fucking idiot, I'm crying about you."

Will said nothing, instead, he wrapped weak arms around her quivering shoulders. The gesture was so unexpected and so tender, it wasn't Will. At least, it wasn't the Will she knew. She painfully wondered if there's another side to him, a side he hides behind the many masks one needs to become a skillful spymaster.

Will being in her arms was a weird feeling. She didn't know if she should hug him back, now that he's awake and fully aware of what she's doing. But if she didn't… would he ask her to? Would it hurt his feelings? Why does she even care about his feelings?

She closed her eyes, drowning the many questions. She wrapped her shaking arms around him. He was warm, and his heartbeat was against her chest, beating steadily, quickly. She whimpered.

"I don't know what's happening to me." She told him.

He sighed.

"Me neither."

* * *

The headquarters was impatient, the walls themselves trembled, eager to know the truth. The Templar ally was in the cellar, tied to a sturdy chair. Peter interrupted the spymaster's morning ritual of gobbling raspberry pastries to give him the news. A suspect was found, he told him, an accomplice of the Templars. Name's Jack or Floyd or Olin, whatever. We need to know everything he knows, whether needed or not.

Maybelle followed him down to the cellar, an uninvited bystander. Her curiosity got the best of her. Will was too far gone in his professional visage to care about her presence. He descended and glared at the man on the chair, facing them, instantly bristling when he spotted them. He was young, perhaps not yet two decades old, his hair was reddish, hacked incredibly close to his head. He barely had whiskers above his lips.

"I haven't done anything, let me go, please!"

Will moved towards him, "I'll be the judge of this—you work for the Templars. An ally of Remy Cain," He circled the chair, a hand tracing the boy's shoulders, "An errand-runner. I don't care if you shine his shoes or suck his cock, I want to know everything about _him_ , start talking."

The boy lost his tongue.

Maybelle bit her lip and looked at the redhead, "You know, I would not mess with him. Really. Do what he says, I'm serious."

"I—I don't… I don't know anything, I swear! He tells me to fetch him his wine from a seller he depends on and give it to man waiting by… by the bent lamppost. Grenache, from Spain. He likes them old. His last was 1858. Please, that's all I know."

Will rolled his eyes, "I don't want wine facts, I want his whereabouts, what he does on a daily basis, where he goes, what he looks like."

The boy began to sob pathetically, he struggled against his bindings, "I don't know! I've never seen the man!"

"You're a liar, you deliver his wine, you must've seen a glimpse of him."

"No! He is never with the man. I think he's his man-servant, or maybe his… his cook! I don't know, I never asked him what he does!"

"Look, two can play at this game." He clapped the boy's shoulders and leaned into his ear, "You aren't in London, the year isn't 1875, Albert is still alive and that woman standing there is my mother. You keep feeding me horseshit, I keep feeding you horseshit, let's see which one runs out of it first."

The boy looked at Maybelle, as if he found in her passiveness a potential ally. His eyes were begging, "Please, I don't know. I don't…" He sobbed.

"Will, I think he's telling the truth. Look at him."

Will raised his brows as if she told him cats can breathe underwater, "No, _you_ look at him. If you had secrets locked inside you, you'll attempt everything to keep them there. Some people refuse to speak, others lie, and some act. Guess we got a theatrical performance, here." He pulled the boy's head by the short strands.

"Yes, but… he's just an errand boy. He doesn't even know what Cain looks like."

"Yes! I don't!" The boy said. Maybelle shut him up with a glare.

Will narrowed his eyes, torn between listening to the voice of reason and keeping the visage of a terrifying interrogator.

Maybelle sighed, then walked to the shivering boy, "Listen, tell him what he wants to know. Come on."

The eruption was expected, "I don't know anything! Please!"

Will seethed, letting the boy's head go and walking to stand in front of him. He leaned in, hands on knees, eyes gleaming dangerously, "You're not going to tell us something? Tell us, _skurwysyn_ , tell us."

The boy's lips quivered, he said nothing, but simply stared into the eyes of a black death.

Maybelle sighed, she nudged Will away. He eyed her, startled, wanting to complain and push her back. But he stood straight, watching her.

"Listen, boy. In the last few months, I've seen horrors no one in the right mind could even imagine. I've experienced pain worse than a thousand deaths in a thousand ways. I can show you. Every. Little. Thing I've learned, and you won't tell me what you think of them. Because by then, you'd be completely mad, or completely dead. Do you want me to tell you?" Will's words poured out of her mouth, tasting poisonous and bitter.

The boy stared at her, completely still, trying to comprehend what she said to him. Before he could choke on his own spit, he swallowed roughly. He shook his head many times, enough that May thought he was trying to make himself dizzy.

"Then, tell us what you know."

"I told you!" He said, "I don't know anything!"

His constant shrill drone was becoming annoying. May knew Will lost his patience a long time ago, and simply waited to the side until May had her turn.

And she had.

She looked at Will, his arms were folded and he was looking at May as if she'd done something horrendous. May shook her head, no amount of threats would coax out info that doesn't exist.

"Are we done?" Will asked her.

"Apparently," and before he could move, "what do you intend to do with him?"

"Do you remember what I told you about allies in other places? Allies that could find this headquarters and put it under the ground?"

Of course.

Loose ends could kill you when you're not looking.

"Are you sure?" May asked him, smiling, as if it would deter him from having to kill him.

"I'm sure." He smiled back.

The boy looked between them, colour leaving his face. They looked at him, both smirking, as if they were looking at a beautiful sculpture. Will moved forward, brushing by Maybelle. He grabbed the back of the boy's head, and put his other wrist under the boy's chin. One flex of a practiced muscle, and the boy jumped slightly, as if startled by some noise. Then, blood began to run down Will's arm, soaking his coat.

Will let go.

The boy's head fell, staring at the massacre pooling in his lap with lifeless eyes. Maybelle watched as his skin turned grey, finding the scene less disturbing than she expected. Even… satisfying?

She saw a lot of blood in her time. She killed some men, and watched others die. She saw her father come back from a bloody bar fight, and of course, saw her own reflection after she was covered in her own blood, then Will's blood.

She always found these moments disturbing. So, what changed? Was it the rush of killing an innocent but dangerous boy that hadn't seen twenty summers? Will watched as the blood trickled over his leather boots, no remorse in his eyes, only a mellow, sleepy look. The strain of the interrogation melting. Leaving him a bloodstained angel, a white-clothed demon. He left the cellar. May looked one last time at the pale corpse, and trudged through a thick carpet of blood to face the questioning gazes of the Rooks.

* * *

Maybelle crept through the night like a thief inside the walls of a mansion. But this was just the headquarters, the dazzling night time beauty that looked rugged in the morning, like the rest of old London.

She reached the warehouse, smelling this time of lantern oil and squashed fruit. In the darkness, she reached the shelf she studied the day before, containing extra weapons and ammo, and a few fear spikes that arrived before. The same shelf Will raided to quench his thirst for fear.

May grabbed one, careful not to prick herself. She shivered from a breeze that wafted in from the open door. She wore only a thin shirt and oversized pants, dressed for bed.

She moved out of the warehouse, closing the door behind her, and walked to the main building.

Everyone was sleeping at this hour, after midnight, but just before dawn. A magical hour. But… wait, the building was lit, oil lanterns fixed to the walls, fire inside them flickering, bathing the wide room in a golden glow.

"What are you doing, awake at this hour?" He asked her, she slightly jumped, and looked for the source.

Will was at the table, a spoon in his hand, a whole plate of jelly in front of him, bits of fruit floating inside, with a mountain of whipped cream on top. He barely looked back at her as he stuffed his mouth by the spoonful. A midnight snack. Or, was it a meal?

"I didn't see you there."

"I didn't expect you to." He said.

Assassins and their camouflage, May thought, startling people since the dawn of time.

She moved to the table, spike still in hand. She made no move to hide it. He noticed it, and gave her a quizzical look.

She smiled, then moved the spike away to her chest, protectively. He didn't take a lot of time to understand.

"Since you're here…" she said, moving to sit across of him, "would you like to help me?" As she helped him once.

"I would, but I want to know why." He put the spoon down and wiped his mouth with his hand.

She thought about it for a while, "Whenever I had this running through my veins, it was by mistake. I want to see what would happen if I wanted this. Like you do. Maybe… maybe it'll be different, maybe I'll see things I won't see otherwise."

He sniffed, then cocked his head and looked at the spike she laid on the table.

"You don't remember the last time one of us got stabbed with this?"

"I do."

"Aren't you afraid of that happening to you?"

"Maybe, but I don't want to be. I want to be strong," she sighed, then toyed with her collar, "I want to fear nothing."

"Fear doesn't dissipate like this, you'll have to work for it. The spike is an instrument, a weapon, to wield against your fears. But in there, you'll have to know what to do."

She said nothing, but nodded. She closed her eyes and listened to the howling wind, how something wooden creaked outside, as if an animal in pain. She opened her eyes, Will was watching her, leaving his whipped cream to melt as he waited for her reply.

This might be the last face she ever sees, the last cold night to feel against her skin, but she has to. She has to.

"Do it."

He exhaled, then got up, walking briskly to her chair. He towered over her, the lantern light glinting in his eyes and contouring his pronounced features.

"Did you bring any straps?" He asked, grabbing her wrist and placing it on the armrest.

"I don't need them." She didn't like them, she didn't want them, she wasn't a prisoner. This is something she wanted.

Will's features remained unreadable as he reached for the spike, he studied the sharp prick, then scowled. He wiped a part of it on his sleeve, tainting it with a transparent liquid.

"Why'd you do that?"

"I reduced the dosage, can't have you dying with Jacob coming back in a few days," he looked at the prick again, he was satisfied. He looked at her, features softening. She remembered Jacob, that green-eyed buffoon that seemed like a stranger to her. Seemed so far away.

"Do you still want this?"

I have to do this, she thought, I want to do this. I want to know what's in there. There must be more than a glass tower and a vacuum.

"Yes."

Will practically grimaced. And for a moment, Maybelle felt he hesitated. But he grabbed her arm and pushed the prick into her shoulder. The last thing she saw was his concerned frown. And the last thing she felt was a hand cupping her face.

* * *

The next moment was upside down. A grassy meadow with tiny baby's breath, a scurrying grey fox that stopped to smell the flowers, then hopped ahead, oblivious to her. Her blood began to leave her legs and was actively rushing down her head, until it became warm and red. The wind nudged her body, rocking it gently, she felt like a pole on an anchored ship. The constant heartbeat in her ears confirmed the reality of this dream. She gasped, twisting to look up. Her feet were bound together with strips similar to the ones that once held Will's wrists, then a rope held her body upside down, hanging from a tree branch. She bent herself upwards with extreme difficulty, her ribs protested and her muscles wailed in misery. She felt around her body, looking for something, anything. She found a dagger. She snatched it from her hip and climbed upwards to saw the rope, holding her breath. The tendrils spun, untangling the merged rigidness, and the last thread snapped. Maybelle fell to the ground, her spine threatening her with a sudden ache. She rose as quick as she could, looking around. The dagger was lost. Not around her, not back in its sheath. Lost.

The forest clearing was beautiful, no doubt. Birch huddled in the east, close-knit like bamboo. And turbulent oaks stood high and mighty in the west, their thick trunks older than the dirt that drowned their roots. The sun shone against the translucent leaves, filtering in gathered rays between them, and collecting on Maybelle's skin. It warmed her blood and made her racing heart slow down. She heard the many birds call out to each other, a greeting there, a flirtation there. She followed the sun and unknowingly trampled a patch of baby's breath. She noticed a hiss in the wind, a movement in the far distance. A fox? No, a red deer. With branching antlers and a lot of meat on his bones. It appeared before her, majestic, and looked at her, its glistening nose sniffing. Then it went back to grazing.

"Aim for the head, brings him down quick." She jumped. The rough voice was beside her. It was a firm command, not an instruction. She turned to look. He looked back, his deep ocean eyes inquiring, his black hair greying at the roots. His golden skin. Josephine married him for his golden skin, as if to pacify her ghost-like paleness. "What are you doing, looking at me like so? Shoot the damn deer."

No, he's not real. He's dead. He killed himself. She's dreaming. This is a nightmare.

Ashton kept his tone low, lest the beast hears him, "If you don't have the guts to do it, I will. You have ten seconds, think."

A rifle was in her hands.

"This is not real, you're dead. Why can't you stay dead? Your life wouldn't matter, it won't change a thing. I'd still be in Nottingham, doing nothing but shield my sister from you, while my mother shields us both. Go away. Go back to hell. You're dead."

The male, older version of her eyed her with disdain, "Stop playing games. I'm alive, you're alive. And that deer is alive. I want him dead. I want to eat. Now."

"No, I don't want to kill him, he doesn't deserve it."

He laughed, "Then who does, if not for the mindless, who else takes the pain?"

"Is that what you tell yourself whenever you hit my mother?"

He grinned in disbelief, "Shoot the deer, Maybelle, shoot the deer. Do it. Put your arms like this, keep your finger at the trigger, and fire at the head. At the head, Maybelle, not the heart, the head."

"Why not the heart? The target is bigger."

"Because it's too risky, it will run amok. It will drive the whole herd away. We will starve. The head, Maybelle, the head."

The head.

 _The head._

She lifted her rifle and put a bullet through the side of Ashton Willis' head. The deer ran away, alerting his kin with his special call, skipping over rocks and fallen tree branches. Her father fell to his knees, a hole in his brain Maybelle could peer through. You're not real, I'm dreaming. This is a nightmare. You killed yourself, you killed yourself. I didn't kill you, Myra didn't kill you. You killed yourself out of guilt.

He gave her a bloody smile, "Do you honestly believe that?"

Then he fell.

The rifle disappeared from her hands, and bullets began ricocheting off the dirt, creeping closer to her feet. She looked up, searching for the attackers, she found nothing but the emptiness of her sunny illusion. The trees were devoid of anything but squirrels and sparrows. They never moved, oblivious to the bullets that whizzed by their tiny ears. The bullets came from nowhere. One planted itself into her boot, and it hurt. It munched at the bone and strummed the threads of her nerves. She cried, and began to limp away. The bullets fell like rain, of all sizes and colors. Golden, long. Grey, thin. Shining like stars.

The unending horizon of green suddenly vanished, turning into a cliff overlooking a rainbow-decorated waterfall. Baptized in fire, baptized in wind, baptized in water. Reborn, and reborn, and reborn yet again. She jumped, closing her eyes. Her ears almost went deaf—the waterfall was too strong. Like a volcanic eruption, the hum of a hundred engines. The water embraced her, and bullets followed her into the water, cutting through the surface like daggers. An unfathomable force pulled her downwards. She sunk deeper, deeper. Not attempting to pry off the invisible hands. Giving in. Drowning, suffocating. The deep dark like an airless midnight.

And at once, the force reversed, pushing her upwards. The hands threw her against the surface, and when she hit the air and the splash of water calmed, the water below her morphed into grey stone. The ceiling was utter blackness, a starless void. She looked to her side and found an unending tunnel with no promise of light. The other side—the same. She rose, still dripping wet. The tunnel was occupied with grey figures—everyday people that might've walked right out of photographs. They didn't notice her, but went around her, leaving her in an eerily perfect circle. She waved to them, their gazes that looked at the infinite sides of the tunnel. No one saw her, not one of them stopped to study the soaked, pale woman who looked obviously distressed.

On one end, the blackness made way for a sudden light, a figure that bathed in a white glow. The same wide-eyed woman from her other visions. She looked at her with those empty eyes, then pushed through the crowd. Her presence gave color to the passerby, whenever she passed by someone, they lost their greyish visage and regained the blindingly vivid colors. Maybelle strained against the growing light.

"Please," said she, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What do you want?" May whispered, the presence of the woman warming her, making her feel safe and wanted.

"I want to be free."

Freedom, that's something Maybelle strived for all her life. The word rang in her ears, _freedom_.

"Let me help you," Maybelle said, and offered her hand. The woman was far away, but she moved closer, and closer, and she took May's hand.

Something cold and hard encased the woman's delicate hand, May looked down, and saw gold. _Her_ gold. The gold she began searching for ever since she saw it for the first time. The woman's other arm was cut, to the elbow, and still bleeding, fresh.

"Free me."

"From what?"

"From this world."

Maybelle tried to find her eyes that were lost inside the light.

"Who are you? Why do you want to die?"

"I was before. My name is Yara, and I've been both dead and alive for thousands of years. I want to close my eyes. I tried, I tried to make it dark, but its light, and it hurts. It _hurts._ "

"What? What hurts? Who'd done this to you? Where are you?"

"Free me." The woman pulled her hand away, taking the gauntlet with her. Maybelle tried to reach her, to get answers. But she was already far, far away.

The woman glanced for the last time, then sank into the darkness as if it was a tangible veil. Her light disappeared, and the bleakness returned.

Maybelle heard a crack. She looked down and found the ground splitting between her feet. Tiny pebbles jumped and danced in response to a distant shiver of stone. Cracks began tracing the ceiling, branching off and growing like an infestation of weeds. The ceiling began to collapse, rocks falling onto the walking people, crushing them, their blood exploding like Chinese ink. Yet none of them blinked an eye. The ground followed, sinking all at once into an unfathomably deep pit. Black was all around her; the grey people were falling with their faces indifferent. Their hats flew all around, the number of the falling headwear exceeding the people's. It was raining men, hats, and stone. The foreboding void wrapped around her, a vacuum, not even air survived, not even light.

She smiled, and let the fall take her.

She fell, and fell, then stopped falling.

* * *

She woke on the same chair in the main room, Will was sitting across, looking at her, concerned. His tongue swirled candy about, clink-clank, clink-clank.

Maybelle looked at him, trying to get used to reality. Her father's doomy glare constantly appeared in her memory like a flashing light. Mocking her. The sound of bullets bouncing off tree bark and dead leaves returned. She was hyperventilating, her chest heaving with every memory she recalled.

Will's cherry-tainted voice, "Are you alright? You were breathing really hard for a moment, I thought you were suffocating."

Truth is, she's been breathing funny ever since he kicked her there. Seems like a long, long time ago. With a different person, not Will. Not _this_ Will.

He lips quivered, she looked at him with teary eyes, "Better than I ever was."

"Was this time different?"

She nodded. He had no idea, nor will he. No one ever will know what she saw in there.

Then, Will's smile faded. He scowled, then examined her, as if he was looking for injuries, which was impossible… wasn't it? He sighed, then touched her cheek with a fingertip.

"Please don't do this to yourself again, don't mimic everything that I do. Because… well, maybe some of the things I do feel good, or are helpful, but they're dangerous."

She smirked, and the tears spilled when she blinked. One ran down and stopped at Will's fingers.

"Do you really care what happens to me, William?"

He sighed, looked at her in pain. As if looking at her, and touching her, burned him, wiped out all that was dear to him. But it was also a bittersweet fantasy, to be so close to her, with her face in his hands.

"A month can change a lot, _kochanie_ …"


	22. Chapter 22

The phantom came, back from his stressful vacation. He arrived by hansom, his coat flowing behind him in the growing wind as he climbed down. She stared down at him, rifle in hand. She had decided to relief a sniper from his duties for a day—an excuse to get away from the awkwardness that accumulated between her and Will the past few days. She didn't feel like facing him after he made a wave of turbulent emotions cloud her vision and haunt her dreams.

Compared to Will, the phantom seemed to have a halo around his head that contrasted greatly with his black coat and the multitude of weapons strapped to his being. He carried himself into his headquarters like a king arriving safely from a long battle, noting the masses that followed him, giving kind gestures to those who celebrated his return.

Jacob looked up, spotting the lean, tall woman that stood there waiting, drowsy eyes ever watchful, drifting from tree to tree, from a universe to the next. The crowd dispersed, going about their business. One examined the recent shipment, another trained the new recruits, a woman patrolled the docks. Maybelle dropped her rifle on the stone barrier. Seeing him again, it felt… odd, as if they were both different people, meeting for the first time. But that didn't make any sense, it was only a month. She kept eye contact, standing her ground.

She saw him smile.

He approached the building, and with the familiar, silent method of climbing, he suddenly appeared on the edge, standing like an oracle, the sun shining above him, shadowing the faint wrinkles at his eyes. He climbed up the ledge, barely a sound, and smirked at Maybelle, thoughtfully studying the newfound jaggedness in her features.

He stepped down, "What happened to you? I told you to train, not to hit your head against a wall." He said, touching the bent nasal bone with total care, as if he was handling a butterfly.

She swatted his hand away. Will happened. Will and his bloodlust, Will and his diamond resilience, Will with his candy breath, with his infrequent Polish, and mesmerizing eyes, and contradicting kindness, and the contrast between Will the spymaster and William the sympathizing fool.

"Nothing, I got into a scuffle."

"With who?"

She ignored the question and hugged him, chin landing on the curve of his neck. He pulled her to him until they became one. The skeleton coldness of him was insignificant, because once, she held starlight in her arms as it waned. Once hot and burning, melting the weights that pulled her heart downwards. And his light almost vanished, drowned out by a poison, one that made him what he is. But his light rekindled, and it changed how she looked at him.

Jacob's memorable scent came to her, blasphemous and grave, London's corrupted alleys, the carbon lacing the rain, the copious hills of paperwork sitting on a tidy desk. The scent took her back to Whitechapel, when everything seemed so different, so new.

"I'm missed you, Frye."

Jacob sighed, fingers in her hair, "I've missed you too, little kitten."

* * *

After Jacob told her about his little meeting with Rosalie, he inspected the upper story that held the newly-cleaned guns. Then, she followed him as he paid a quick visit to the cellar.

He was met by the butchery, the massacre. The blood of an innocent mixed with his spymaster's and his accomplice's. The walls were splattered. The couch had the red imprint of her battered body. No one had the stomach to clean up after the pair's complete annihilation of the redhead's soul, nor tried to tend to their hidden bruises that still hurt whenever they moved. The corpse of the Templar suspect was removed, but the ghost of him lingered in every corner, breathing down everyone's neck.

"What… happened here?"

Maybelle looked at him, eyes hard, "An interrogation."

Jacob walked into the carnage, cutting a path through the dried, flaking blood. The chair was still there, now as if Bois de Rose instead of Oak. Bits of dried blood clung to the wood, refusing to be scrapped off. The chair stood in what was once a pool of blood, now faint and washed out.

"An interrogation? It looks like you sacrificed someone in here. Who had formed a cult while I was gone?" He spun, facing her, half angry, half petrified.

May sniffed, she scratched her neck and moved to the chair, plopping into it as if it was cushioned, indifferent to the layer of gore coating it.

"The man was a Templar, he refused to speak, so we refused to let him go—"

"And you kill him?!" He snapped, May glared at him.

"If we let him go, do you think we'd find the man that nearly baked us? He would find us first, and he would set the whole building on fire, let's see how cross you'd be with us, then."

"May… I don't… why did you…?"

"Because Will taught me things you'd never teach me. Because you don't have the gull to know them yourself."

He said nothing, simply stared at her as if they were back at her uncle's roof. As if they were back to the beginning.

"Can you please lose the frown? We need to concentrate and find a way to get to Cain's neck."

Jacob closed his parted lips, then shrugged, "Of course… if that is… what you want."

"Alright," she rose, "We need to use Will's connections to locate Cain, last thing we heard about him was from Jude, rest his soul." She paced around the cellar.

"I can't use Will's connections."

She rolled her eyes, "Why not?"

"They're not affiliated with the brotherhood; they are remnants from his brother's gang. They only listen to him. You know… it's a long story. There was a man, Greenie. I gather you already know of him after your intrusion." He barely looked at her.

Maybelle hummed.

"Well, he was a sort of a spymaster, when Evie was still here and we were working on another matter entirely. When they left together, they left me with almost nothing to work with. I needed someone, anyone."

They would leave him like so? "How could they do this to you?"

"Ah, well. The threat was wiped almost entirely, no one suspected the Templars to regain a foothold so quickly. There was a reason I stayed for a long time in India, it's because we were all sure we had the city in our grasp." He sighed, "That might still be true, but we need to keep it so."

Maybelle chewed her lip, "You mentioned Will's brother?"

His voice became low, as if the walls were thin, "You don't know this, and I don't want to see his face when he knows that you know. But his brother is a deranged case roaming London right about now. No one ever caught him with a felony, but he's done enough of them to be deported to the moon."

Her brows snapped together, "What gang? I never heard of a gang."

"Of course you haven't, this is the beauty of Will. He operates with the illusion that he has no past, that he was born yesterday and will be reborn tomorrow. But if anyone knows what happened to him, it would be me. I found him with his brother, they had just dispersed a criminal body that mostly worked underground. They brought it to life only to survive the streets when they were found themselves there, and once they began to thrive without misdemeanours and felonies, the siblings went their own way. I found him wandering aimlessly, searching for a path to take. His experience with criminal activity and his brilliance with people made him a perfect potential recruit."

"He was the perfect trophy to add to your collection?" She teased.

He approached her, "Say what you will about him, that trophy can look upon a dead man and tell you exactly how he died, and what he had been doing before he moved to the afterlife. If he worked in the police, no crime would ever go unsolved."

Well, she already knew that. But she kept it to herself.

"So, what about Jude? Was he… you know, part of that gang?" She found the notion slightly unsettling.

Mentioning him again made Jacob visibly uneasy, he avoided her gaze, "No, he was one of us. Inducted into the brotherhood ever since I met him on the train, he was one of the few spies who operated almost-individually, usually only reporting to me. That's why I've met him, you see. He doesn't like contacting Will too much, only when he has to."

"That covers Jude, but where did Will come from, you know, before the gang?" She knew he wouldn't tell her himself, but she had to know.

Jacob huffed, going to sit on the bloody couch, unfazed. Maybelle went to stand in the dried pool of her own blood, and tried to hear the brewing thoughts in Jacob's mind.

"His mother, Ramona, found herself in London after a family friend offered the irresistible journey. A new beginning in a big city, he told her, the bankruptcy of your husband's farms and your divorce shouldn't be the end of your life. She had two young boys clinging to her skirt and not two coins to rub together. So, she turned to manual labour, factories, that sort of thing. She… to rip a woman out of the lap of luxury and toss her right into a crime infested, disease invaded city, and tell her to fend for herself, to build a life for her children… well, you know how this ended."

"She died?"

"Heartbroken, in a flat shared with two other families, leaving two orphans behind. Children that didn't know any better, children that were too fearful to follow in their mother's footsteps, to yield to the life of factories. If they were girls, they would've sold their purity for fifteen pounds each, but they were boys, starving boys."

"And he, he…"

She couldn't continue, it was far too much to process. He became broken, he changed. From an innocent, giggling boy, to a criminal. And that mask remained on his face for the rest of his years. It didn't justify his actions, but it clarified them, and made them painful to process. She tried to picture him as a man who was never swallowed by the monster that is London, an unforgiving beast that feasts on both the living and the dead. Maybe the side of him she discovered is what could've been, a man she could trust, a man she could…

"Frye, look." She sat beside him, on the dried waterfall of blood, "Will might seem like a madman… but, behind that, there's… something more, I'm sure there is."

He leaned back to get a good look at her, "What have you done to Maybelle?"

"What? Nothing, I'm Maybelle, and I'm safe and sound."

"Yes, but…" he put a hand on her shoulder, "You seem different, cold, as if you've been through something. Did Will… do something to you? Hurt you in any way?"

"What? No…" She removed his hand and looked straight at him, "I'm fine, look at me."

"I am looking at you, you have a broken nose and you look like your dog just died."

"Thank you."

Jacob sighed.

"What did Will do to you, kitten?"

She chewed her lip, remembering the days Will kept her on edge in so many ways. When she slept, she woke up three hours later with a pounding headache and the ghost of a nightmare. But she wasn't afraid, not anymore. Not of any nightmare, not of any ghost. She looked at the cellar, a bloody painting before her, even the air had a sickening, metallic taste to it. It smelled rotten, like a dying warzone. They did that, together. And she felt nothing.

"You should ask him what I did to him."

Jacob looked at her like a sad puppy, words dying before they escaped his lips. She smirked, it was almost entertaining… to watch him as he lost the sure glare he always viewed the world with. What would he do if he knew his allies were drug addicts and madmen? What would he do if he knew the road Will showed her? Perhaps he already knew, but it was too much to say it out loud, too much to see the phantom lost in the world he haunted. The image weighed her down as if the gravity of the world focused solely on her.

But at least she knew, and she knew how much she didn't see before. Fear is a feeling that could control the masses, and pain is a feeling that could reshape a man. And neither applied to her, not anymore. She faced her fears, and lived. It was an illusion, but it felt real… too real. And that woman, that woman that begged her for a way out, to be free, just as Maybelle herself once did.

Her goal changed, but in a way… it was still the same. She wanted to find the gauntlet… but not because she wanted it, but because she wanted to find that woman. Yara asked for her help, no, she _begged_ her. She's real, how could she not be? She's too specific, too frequent. She wasn't an illusion, she's real, she's real.

She breathed in, but it hurt. She put her hand on the source of the pain, her ribs, the place where Will once unloaded all the hatred inside him. Not for her… no, the world. She knew it. Doesn't make him less of a twat for doing it, though.

Either way, she got her revenge.

* * *

The cold wind became warmer, gentle, and comforting instead of stinging. It was a welcome change, because the cold kept Maybelle in that night where everything changed. And she didn't know how to feel about what happened.

Jacob followed her as they walked to the docks. He was staring at her throughout. What's gotten into him? It was beginning to feel uncomfortable, too close and for too long.

"What is it, Jacob? Why're you staring? Did I forget to wear my shirt?"

"Hmm?" He snapped out of his thoughts, "Oh, nothing. I just…"

They reached the docks, and Jacob looked at the calm waves, and watched as a large mosquito landed on the water, floating away.

He exhaled and turned to her, studying her as one would a sculpture, really seeing her features, for once. Icy skin surrounding her oceanic eyes, the black sky of her hair, the background. The way he looked at her… it's as if he lost something.

"May, I…" He wanted to ask her, she knew. He wanted to know what happened while he was away. One month that changed everything. One month, and the kitten grew into a lion.

"What is it, tell me what you want." She put her hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer.

"I… miss you, terribly."

"You're back, and I'm still here."

Jacob sighed and looked at his boots, "I'm not so sure about that."

"Jacob," May held the assassin's chin with a thumb and a forefinger, "I'm still here. I'll always be here. Maybe I'm different, but I'm still myself. I'm still Maybelle. I'm still the person you walked through fire with. I'm still the person that helped you kill Blake. I'm still the person that ate your food experiments. And I'm still the person that sat next to you on every train ride for the past five months. I'll always be that person, Jacob. You'll never lose that person. That person is stronger, and it's all because she wanted to impress you."

Jacob said nothing for a while, just stared with the same lost look in his eyes. Then he gave her a little sad smile. He took her hands in his own, squeezed them, then leaned in and kissed her forehead for three long seconds. A kind gesture. Whether romantic or not, she didn't care. It felt good, it felt as if she was wanted.

Jacob moved away from her, gave her a look full of emotion. As if to say, I'm proud of you, Maybelle. Or to say, you'll always be my little kitten.

He left her to guess which one he meant.

* * *

May had to face someone, _anyone._ It's not that she's grown bloodthirsty, it's just that Will was busy with his letters, and Jacob left right after breakfast to check on a headquarters in Southwark. She paced around all day in the cellar, twiddling her thumbs, practicing punches on imaginary targets. Does she really have to practice? What wouldn't she do for a pipe of Opium and a nice, warm bed…

Then three of them came, three Rooks that were one of the users of the dank, forgotten area. Three Rooks that snuck away from their long duties to get drunk on gin in the cellar. It was still midday, are those people serious?

They paused their chatting and laughing as they noticed her, they froze on the stairs. The one in the middle, a tan man with enormous biceps, hid the bottle of gin behind his back and stared right at her.

"I'm sorry, I thought this place is vacant this time of day." He said. His friends, a young boy and a woman, cowered behind him, visibly stiff.

May cracked her binding-wrapped knuckles, she shrugged, "Not for a while, I've been training here for the past few weeks."

"I see…" He said, and started to back away.

"Hey, wait," May stepped forward, adjusting her high-waist pants, "you can stay, I'm not going to tell what you're doing."

He exhaled, the two behind him looked at each other, smiling.

"Why, thank you!" The man said, and walked to the couch, brushing by her, already uncorking the bottle with his teeth. His friends plopped down next to him, staring eagerly at the transparent liquid.

"On one condition." May said, raising a finger. The young boy froze with a mouthful of gin in his cheeks, he looked at his older friend.

The man watched May as she flexed her arms, raising them above her head. He grabbed the bottle from the boy and took a long, long sip, "What is it?"

"I want you to fight me, any of you, or all of you. I need someone to practice with."

The man narrowed his eyes, "Sparring happens in the night, when nearly everyone is free, not right now."

"Oh, so it's too early for that? Isn't it too early for gin? Too early to bunk down and spend the rest of the day snoring in the cellar?"

He clenched his teeth, "Fair enough, but I wouldn't hit a girl."

The woman shot up, "That's not what happened the last time we went to a bar, Fred."

Fred's lips became a thin line, he glared at his friend. She shrunk.

May smiled, "Seems like you did hit a girl. What, were you too drunk? Well, drink up, if that's what it takes…"

Fred grumbled, shoved the bottle in the boy's hands—which he proceeded to empty. And rose, swinging his fists in the air and jumping in his place. May smirked, and backed away, raising her fists.

"I'm warning you, I won't go easy on you." He said.

"That's great." May side stepped around him. He launched a blind hook, May dodged it and kneed him in the stomach.

He backed away, coughing, then ran towards her, grunting. She moved out of the way, and saw him lose his balance and slide across the floor. The woman burst laughing, pointing at her friend.

"Sylvia, don't you-" He was cut by May grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him up, to give him two punches on the nose, and one on the jaw. He backed away until his back slammed into the wall. May giggled.

"Come on, man! Are you that drunk?"

He growled, voice grating in his throat like a beast. He moved slowly to her, pretended to aim for her neck, but instead slapped her on the ear. It rung, disorienting her. Fred darted and delivered an uppercut to her chin. She stumbled back and fell.

She stared at the ceiling, breathing hard. Then she laughed, and rose to kneel and stare at him, "That's the way, I thought you'd never figure it out."

He raised his fists again, and they circled. May smiled at him, beckoning him. He rolled his eyes, snatched the gin from the boy's mouth, and left the cellar.

May still had her fists up.

"Oh, come on! Where did he go?" May looked at the door, then crossed her arms.

She noticed the boy and the woman sitting, staring at her with gaping mouths. The boy was visibly dizzy, swaying from side to side. He then put his chin on the armrest, and closed his eyes, sleeping right there with his butt in the air and his legs bent awkwardly. The woman, Sylvia, looked at May, shrugging.

"Do you know how to fight?" May asked, grinning.

Sylvia shook her head quickly, sinking lower on the couch.

May scratched her neck, "Would you… like to learn? I could teach you…"

Sylvia nodded eagerly, rising.

* * *

Her body was filled with scratches. Prominent, angry ones that bled and stung and made her itch. She shouldn't have faced that last Rook—she was a small woman, thinner than her—that's a first. She tried to teach her to punch, but instead, she scratched her everywhere like a feral cat. And May couldn't risk opening her eyes to see where she is and stop her. Of course, Sylvia was proud of herself. Especially when she carried her friend away without stumbling or leaning awkwardly.

"I'm sorry for not being here to spar with you." Will said as he ran an ointment-slathered finger on the back of her arm, where a red mark itched and burned.

"Well, I'm kind of glad you weren't here…"

"Why is that?" His finger stopped, "Is it because of what happened the first time we sparred?"

Maybelle hummed, shrugging, "What do you think? Wouldn't you feel the same if you were in my position?" She listened to his silence for a straight minute, his warmth grew closer, and he sighed.

"Well, yes, but…" He traced an old scar along her back, his finger was cold enough to make her shiver, but it also felt nice and refreshing against her new and old wounds.

"But what? You didn't mean to?"

"No… I didn't know you then."

May licked her lips, and stared at her hands in her lap, "Do you do this to everyone you don't know?"

He sighed again, then held her shoulders, squeezing slightly, "Don't make this harder than it already is. I hate to admit to myself… what I've become… I was... different. I was a happy person, before..."

"What were you, before that?"

His fingers quivered against her skin, "I don't… I've never told you what…"

"You don't have to, if you don't want to."

"Yes, I don't want to. It's best that I don't remember," he swept her hair to the side, exposing her warm neck, "No one has seen me like this for the past fifteen years, all tender and mellow, I prefer to keep it that way."

May bit her lip, she reached back and took his hand in her own, she looked down and ran her thumb along the calloused knuckles and the bulging veins, "You don't have to hide behind a mask with me, I won't judge you, and I won't hurt you. You taught me how to be brave, and I will never forget that."

The hand in hers went stiff, Will moved around behind her, uneasy. Then his chin touched her shoulder. He pulled her against him, the ointment on her back stuck to his precious coat, but he didn't care.

"I'm sorry… so sorry, for doing what I did. I shouldn't have done any of it. I should just leave this place and go back to the damn train…"

"No," She turned and met his pained eyes, he was so close, close enough that she couldn't focus on anything but them, "I don't want you to go, I want you to stay here."

"But I've done… horrible, terrible things to you, you should hate me, you should want to kill me."

May smirked, their foreheads touched, May toyed with Will's lapel, "Sometimes… sometimes you strike a nerve, William, but I'll never have the heart to kill you."

Will chuckled, he wrapped his arm around her hip, "That's good to know."

They stayed there, against each other, listening to their breathing and beating hearts. Will wrapped his other arm around her and slid his hands upwards, to her waist. Then moved his fingers languidly, as if he was trying to tickle her. May parted her lips, and pulled him closer by the lapels.

"Will…"

" _Pocałuj mnie…_ "

She didn't need to understand Polish to know what he wanted, because she wanted it just as much. She nestled her nose against his cheek and kissed him, roughly, for one long moment, enough to drown out the world, and more, softer, with their lips barely touching. He slid his hand to the flimsy bindings that kept her breasts away from his gaze, her breath caught in her throat.

" _Chcę cię, proszę, proszę…_ " Will was breathless against her lips, his fingertips sliding under the bindings. His kisses and touches became more urgent, more desperate. May grabbed him by the shoulders and laid back on the couch, pulling him with her. He groaned, and slid his knee between her legs. He kissed up her neck.

It's funny, funny how her world changed. Last time she was with a man, she woke up in a puddle of her own vomit because she got drunk for the first time. It was because of her fellow guards, egging her on and drinking merrily in some celebration she couldn't remember. But this… this is different. In so many ways. She didn't know what this will make them, she hardly knew what to think about Jacob before Will. And here he was, on top her, clinging to her as she whimpered, as if they'll save each other's lives.

She put her hands in his soft hair, and let him take her for as long as he could.

* * *

 **Two chapters because I love you :D Thank you for everyone who reviewed recently.**

 **So, the romance between Will and May is actually pretty fucked up if you think about it. It's not meant to be sweet. Sexy? Perhaps, but it's too messed up to be sweet. May has known only hardship all her life, and Will knew a bit of kindness before it got taken away from him, this means both of them don't really know how to act around each other or what a healthy relationship looks like. Did they forgive each other? Definitely, but it's part of the reason why it's so messed up.**

 **Team Jacob, lol...**


	23. Chapter 23

Dinner was in reverse. Once a distant occasion that was limited to chewing on rubbery, dark steak. Now it was a celebration of lunacy in its most robust form. The cook decided to include Rum, in its most unadulterated form, with the bland cut of meat. In another life, it might've been joy for May to drink her fill of intoxication and forget about her worries, for once. But until fate presents such an existence for her, she had to firmly sit in her table, watching as the Rooks drowned themselves in the harsh-smelling liquid. The sailing ship of gangsters swung to and fro, everything becoming blurry and unregistered to their eyes.

She was sitting next to Will, who was seated closest to Jacob. Will touched her thigh under the table frequently, whispering unintelligible things every now and then. May appreciated the attention, but she didn't appreciate the disapproving gazes of the soberest Rooks. Especially Jacob, the phantom sulked at the head of the table, moving his steak around with a fork, painting the wooden plate with the colourful juices of whatever the cook decided to toss in.

That morning, Will was busy with a long meeting with one of his spies, between the folds of a dank alley, or knowing Will, perhaps under the Thames or in York. Nonetheless, he left her to wonder about their time together, and how it felt, and if it'll ever happen again. Five long hours, and then he came back, saw her inside their room, on the windowsill, knees folded against her chest. He mumbled a greeting, changed his clothes, and went devil knows where until dinner came.

And now, it was back to treating her like a queen, as if she mattered again. As if she's a different person, now that the night has fallen. Silently, she went with it. Maybe it's just the stress of listening to another spy all day, she told herself.

Jacob seemed to give them both the cold shoulder. He leaned back in his chair and glared at Maybelle like she killed his sister. Will ignored him, instead choosing to wrap an arm possessively around her shoulder until he felt it cramping and her shoulder became sweaty.

Utensils clattered as the drunk gangsters dropped them for a toast, laughing boomingly every time they heard a sly remark or an incredibly humourless jest. The man on her other side constantly bumped into her as he swayed with the crowd, singing a bawdy song for a moment of focus, then stopping altogether and sampling his forgotten food. Her eyelid twitched, she closed her eyes and kept her cool.

Quickly, the building was overrun with the sickly-sweet aroma, and Maybelle began to feel queasy and on edge. To her, everybody appeared drunk, albeit in various stages. There was Clark, the prim-and-proper towering hunk that would pass as a politician if he donned a tuxedo. Now he was as shit-faced as a cat who was drowning in a barrel of ale. Over there, on the far left, was Semira. A half-Ethiopian beauty whose dark eyes were glossy after her second tankard.

It was only Jacob who was completely sober, his tankard filled to the brim beside his plate. Even Will was on his way to becoming drunk. She could just up and leave, but where will she go? Everyone except the few Rooks who were guarding the walls were having dinner. She didn't feel like being alone till the next morning.

Will simpered beside her, his fingers curling around his tankard, "Maybelle, I'll ask for your tankard in a few. Give it to no one, clear?" He slurred, eyes drooping.

She barely looked, "It's my tankard, I'll do whatever I want with it. Set your eyes elsewhere."

"Why aren't you drinking it, then?" He asked, leaning in close.

"I don't drink, don't ask."

He laughed slowly, "What do you mean, you don't drink? This is the best drink after wine and amaretto. It will knock you out like a twenty-year-old whore after a hard fuck."

May sighed, "I don't want to listen to your dirty mouth."

"Oh, you prefer it against your skin instead?" He moved closer, and gave her a peck on the cheek. His breath smelled like Rum, his clothes too, and probably the hand firmly clutching the flesh on her thigh. May grimaced.

Jacob bristled in the background, jaw clenching and unclenching. May scowled and shook her head at him, as if telling him to piss off.

He kept looking. The man on her left bumped against her again. Will eyed his plate with disdain, ignoring or missing the scene.

"Hey, Frye, what are you looking at?" She asked.

He broke eye contact and pretended to stab his fork in his food.

"I asked you a question, why are you looking at me like I burned your apartment?"

"It's nothing…" He said, barely audible, Maybelle had to read his lips.

"You've been looking at me funny for the past hour, what's your problem?!" A few Rooks looked at her, startled by the sudden noise, then most of them laughed.

"I haven't…"

"He's just jealous." Will said, then gulped a third of his Rum.

"Jealous? Of what? Of you?" Jacob asked.

"Yes, you're jealous because she decided to lay with me instead."

"Will… I don't think it's in your position to brag about that." May said, turning to look at him, teeth gritting.

He barely looked at her, but kept glaring at Jacob, "Hmm? And why not? You're definitely something to brag about. But then again, no one in the right mind would sleep with Jacob, not even for money."

Jacob let his fork drop into his plate, the sound was muffled by the thick piece of steak, but Will noticed Jacob's action nonetheless. Jacob gripped the corners of the table, as if he was unloading his anger on the hard wood.

"Release the table, Jacob, you look ridiculous." Will said, watching Jacob's knuckles as they turned white.

Jacob had it, May could see it in his eyes when he finally looked at Will. She was taken back to the night she watched him go through Blake's men like they were made of mush. A cold, unbending stare that simply meant ' _There's no going back now'_. Will threw his tankard back and gulped, gulped, gulped, while staring at Jacob out the corner of his eye, smirking. He placed his tankard on the table and looked at Jacob, fully facing him now.

The strain in the dining room was palpable, she could hear it in the soundless void the Rooks refused to fill, felt it in the stiff shoulders of the Rook next to her, noticing the danger even through his royal drunkenness.

"Listen here, William. I am your boss, and you will give me the respect my title deserves."

"If you need to tell me you're the boss, then you're not a true boss," Will stood and paced around the quiet table, "What do you say, lads? Is he a good boss? This man, who left you so he could kick his feet up in India? A man who rarely visits most of your headquarters because he was too busy in something he refuses to explain? No." He stopped right behind Jacob's chair, standing tall and mighty over the phantom. A back-stabbing psychopath and a murdering recluse. Although, May didn't know which one is which.

"No, no boss ever does this to his people. You're not a true boss, you're an actor, a cheat. You've never been anything, and without your sister—"

"Don't… mention my sister."

"Without your sister, you're a weakling. All brawn and no brain," Will gripped Jacob's shoulders and leaned in, "You're the shadow of what you think you are, you're the ghost of nothing."

"I made you, I made you what you are," Jacob let go of the corners and balled his hands into fists, "Without me, you wouldn't even be alive."

"And without me, your whole life would crumble to pieces…"

"You were lost." Jacob said, voice both soft and firm.

"No, _you_ were lost, unable to lead without your other half. _You_ were lost, until you found me. It was I who made you, Jacob, and it is I who can destroy you."

Jacob's face became relaxed. He stood up and away from Will's hold, pushed it in, and smoothed down his clothes. He turned and looked at Will, May couldn't see Jacob's expression, but she could see Will's smile fading, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his boss. As if he expected something to happen… a kick, or Rum to the face. Jacob reached in his pocket, and within seconds, threw a metal-knuckled hook at Will's mouth.

May heard the crack and saw the action, but it didn't register in her mind until she saw a trickle of blood come out of Will's parted mouth, until the deep red coated his mouth completely.

"How's that for destruction, Franczak?" Jacob said, clutching his bloody knuckles and stepping back.

Will wiped the blood from his mouth, and his tongue darted to check for lost teeth. He then scowled, wide-eyed. And lunged towards Jacob, he pulled the assassin to the table and threw him onto forks and knives and plates full of gravy. An explosion of foodstuffs occurred. Will straddled Jacob and began hammering him with devastating blows to the face. Steak slid into laps, Rum spilled and soaked into the green clothing of the Rooks, bread squished under elbows. Rum slid down May's neck and soaked through her shirt, she was frozen to her seat, looking at the scene, practically mesmerized. Jacob's thrashing made the few china plates slide off the table and break into tiny little pieces. The china crunched under Rooks feet as half of them fled and the other half attempted to pry the madman off the barbarian.

May finally regained her senses, she darted out of the chair and away from the shouting and the blood, but she looked on. Will pushed away Rooks while Jacob accidently kicked them in the groins. Then he grabbed Will and flipped them, wanting to annihilate Will's entire set of teeth. But Will retaliated by rolling off the table, taking Jacob with him. They found themselves on top of each other, then their faces hardened at the same time and they shot up on shaking legs. Jacob went for Will's throat.

I have to do something, May thought. She might be small and weak, but both of these bastards mattered in some way to her. She couldn't let one kill the other. If only Jacob survived, she'll spend the rest of her life remembering the only man who showed her love, and if only Will survived, there's no chance he'll help her get to the gauntlet and the woman.

May bit her lip and looked at Will as he escaped the hold of two drunk Rooks. May frowned and stood on the table, ignoring the slippery gravy and the china shards that went into the soles of her boots.

"Oi! Will!" She called, waving her arms. The spymaster ignored her and tried to free himself from three sober Rooks. He was looking at Jacob, practically foaming at the mouth.

"Jacob?" She looked at him, he was on the ground, glaring back at Will, but not doing much else.

She inhaled deeply and, "Hey! I'm talking to you!" She got off the table, landing between the two of them. Will kicked a Rook on the back of his knee. The man yelped and fell.

May approached, seized Will's collar, and pried him off sticky, grimy fingers and shoved him to the wall. His back hit it, and his hands reached for purchase, but he found nothing and his arse hit the ground.

May walked between the fallen men, glaring at them. Will's chin was coated with glistening blood, like a lion who just finished eating its kill. Jacob was panting, and moving around his wrist, grunting every time it cracked.

"You two, are the stupidest creatures I've seen. You, Frye, I thought you'd be the last person to respond to provocation, yet here you are, like an idiot. He was trying to get on your nerves just for an excuse to fight, and you let him?"

"What do you want me to do, sit there while I—"

"Yes! Just ignore him!"

Will snickered, "I don't think he'll get any respect if he did that."

Jacob stood. He leaned on the table and tried to steady his breathing.

"Oh, so you try to tear out each other's throats for some goddamn respect?!" She stomped towards him, "Don't ever pretend I'm some trophy to be won. Just because you slept with me once doesn't mean we're together, and it certainly doesn't mean you can show me off to your enemies."

"We're not enemies." Will said, and pushed off the ground.

"Well, you say that, but I know how you view each other. Like opponents, as if you're in some contest. But you have to work together, you are teammates! He's your brother!"

Will sighed, grimacing at the word, "We might be in the same team, but he's not my brother."

May looked between them, their burning gazes as they eyed each other. She felt like crying, this is not what she intended when she walked into their lives. Maybe they loathed each other from the beginning, but her presence only boosted their hatred.

The Rooks were watching the scene, with parted mouths and arms awkwardly to their sides.

"What're you looking at? Get someone to clean up this mess and go to bed."

They kept looking at her.

"What did I just say?! Go!"

Eventually, they snapped out of their trance and exited the main room. They left the three of them alone with the unending silence.

Will looked at May, hands twitching as if he wanted to inch closer and show Jacob who she belongs to, but he exhaled and went out the door. Jacob was hunched over the table, barely moving. May wanted to say something, _anything_. But she couldn't find the words.

She left him to his thoughts.

* * *

She ran out of the main room and took a straight line to the buildings which had most of the beds. A glorified barracks which corners were always musty and somewhat green, which mattresses were always laced with various insects and the blackness spewed from steamships relentlessly passing by.

She made her way to the biggest chamber, the one at the top, which she shared with Jacob then Will then Jacob again, and locked the door with the key that was secured to the doorknob with a thick string. She swept back her hair and studied the door's hinges, as if someone would try to barge in. She didn't want to see them that night, they could find an empty bed in the men's quarters, or stay awake. She didn't care.

Maybelle sighed, finally sure that she was alone. She quickly changed her clothes, tossing the fowl-smelling articles to a corner. She ran a hand over her face, recalling the events that took place.

For some reason, she thought about her time as the Viscount's guard. Stocker's squad was not, in any way, proper. The opium-addicted men made raffles on who gets to bang Willis' maids at a given night. They might've been discreet about it, but orgasmic voices sometimes erupted in the dank guard's quarters when they've had too much to drink. But at least, at the very least, Stocker's squad fought for something noble—protecting people, not robbing them blind. No matter what the people they guarded stood for, they were still souls, and the squad pledged their lives to protect these souls. She missed being with them, instead of these green lunatics and their bloodthirsty leaders.

Maybelle neared the small mirror that Jacob kept on a tall table next to the washbasin, to shave the overgrowth of his light beard and keep a clear line bordering it. She leaned in and took a good look at herself. Her eyes were bloodshot, her frown was more prominent, and her nose wasn't magically rebuilt yet. She sighed, she wanted sleep, and it'll be impossible to that after what happened. It's been too long, tossing and turning, she needed her stash. Right now.

She crept to the nearly-empty closet hugging the wall across the beds, a piece apparently salvaged from a wreck somewhere, then cleaned and polished to feign a young age. Like the face of an old woman under ten layers of makeup. She kneeled and wedged her arm in the tight space between the closet and the ground, and pulled the parcel with two fingers. Since Will was the source of her poison, it was packed into one of his many candy bags, it still smelt of some type of red fruit. Raspberry, perhaps?

Within a few moments, she was sitting on her bed, pipe in hand, one lit candle by the nightstand, stripped out of the wet breeches and left in a shirt and drawers. The rosy aroma will stick to her simple clothes and travel the threads of her blankets, and Jacob would likely find out what she's been doing, but she didn't care. A cricked chirped loudly, the sound embellished by the distant hoot of an owl, glorified by the waves crashing against the docks. The ceiling above her was cracked and ready to rain bits of stone, and the room was generally tight and airless. A potted plant might not grow anywhere in the building. It was a marvel she lived many days surrounded by those thick walls.

The Opium began to set in, the promise of fading out, the intense feeling of her worries seeping out of her pores like sweat. Of course, sweat and worry regenerate. But it was a heavenly feeling, a dangerous feeling. It will never grow old, it will always be there for her when all the world has abandoned her. When the great fire returns, but this time takes all of London, Opium would still be waiting for her at the borders, instantly comforting. She breathed in until her lungs burned and ached, she coughed until her throat was raw.

Her eyes stung with tears. She remembered beating Will in this very same room, red marks incredibly clear and almost glowing. She remembered his smile that abruptly appeared when her knuckles collided, startling her. She remembered Jacob, with his light kiss upon her forehead, his playful grins. And she remembered the direct reason behind their fighting. Herself. She closed her eyes. Wishing she'd just disappear.

She finished her pipe, already missing the bittersweet act of inhaling the fumes. It is an affliction, her addiction- she wanted it gone, and nobody knew what her agony felt like until they stopped living the pain vicariously. Drifting between craving and need, right and wrong. She wanted it, she hated it. She has the shakes and the anger and the suspicion with harsh lights. She sobbed.

She closed her eyes as the dainty display of the swimming fog began to calm. She slept above the covers for as long as an hour, then, a knock on the door woke her.

She peered through one eye at the darkness. The candle managed to extinguish itself through her sleep, which was a good thing, or else she would wake up to find it knocked over. A feeling told her she was imagining the knocking, she closed her eyes again.

The knocking persisted.

"Who is it." She stated weakly. The visitor heard her.

The distant voice from a thousand dreams and a thousand nightmares, "It's me, it's Jacob. Open the door, we need to talk."

She exhaled into her pillow, a tear soaking the coarse fabric, "I don't think I can open the door, Jacob. Go… away…"

The handle twisted, "Are you okay? Do you need anything? You… don't sound well."

"I was sleeping, I'm alright."

His fingers tapped on the door, "Then open up, come on."

"I can't do that."

He sighed, "I know you're upset with me, and with Will. I'm sorry for our behaviour, you have to open this door. This is our room, all three of us, and it'll stay that way, for now."

"You want to make amends?" She giggled, but it sounded like a mouse's faint squeal.

"Now… wait a moment. I never said anything about amends and what-not. If you want those ridiculous candy discs as an apology, I can get you that, but if you ask for a horse or a gold bracelet, well…"

She snorted, wiping a tear from her face. She tried to feign an indifferent mood, "I want a visit to the theatre, or a ball. Throw me a fucking ball. Lord knows I want to see how it looks inside."

He hummed, "May, open the door. Open the door before I open it myself."

She hissed, turning, "You misunderstood, I can't open it, in a literal sense. I can't."

She could feel his thoughts changing, his voice became probing, "Why? Are you alright? Did Will do something to you? Did Peter? I think he passed out under the table, but that doesn't mean he didn't make it here afterwards."

"No, no one did anything to me."

"Then what?"

She sighed, he'll kick her out, "I did it to myself, I guess. Well, I'm alright, really. I just… wish it wasn't this way…"

"What?" He twisted the handle again, "What did you do? Did you harm yourself? Did you down something? We didn't mean it, we didn't mean to…" He grumbled, "Forget it, I'm going in."

"Jacob! No!" She tried to sit up, but her muscles felt too weak to do it. She rolled and fell from the bed, falling on her cheek. She grunted, using the nightstand as leverage to get up. The candle, two books, and an old cup of tea fell with the rickety piece. The nightstand fell over her legs and the cup shattered, against her right arm, the shards sticking in and the blood beginning to seep. The books fell elsewhere. She yelled, kicking the nightstand away as if it was a wolf.

She heard the door open, then Jacob's gasp, "What have you…?" He cut himself and hurried over, then kneeled to help her up. He tossed her pale arm over his shoulder, and stood with her, she sagged like jelly, barely able to stand, with her bare feet catching tiny pincers of china, she groaned.

"I fell… I fell." She croaked.

He sighed, "Obviously."

He moved her to the foot of the bed, where it was clear of her tumble's results. He sat her down, then let his gaze slowly move down her body. She closed her legs, pulling her drawers closer to her knees. His lip was cut and several red and blue marks colored his face, and his shirt was splattered with blood.

He lit a lantern at the foot of the washbasin, then left it there.

"What have you done to yourself? You look paler than a ghost." The scene finally became cleared and his gaze went to the side, where the burnt-out pipe of Opium nested on the rough sheets. He sniffed the air, as if the presence of the long pipe wasn't an enough indication, "You've been smoking? Are you serious, Maybelle? You've been smoking Opium?"

She shook her head and swallowed a sob, "It's not the first time."

"Not the first time, what…?" He exhaled, grunting as he saw her arm soaking the blanket red. He looked torn between scolding her and taking pity on her, "When was the first time? Who gave it to you? Was it Will?"

"It doesn't matter who gave it to me, why would it matter?"

His tone was firm, "Because I'd be able to tell whomever to stop. I can't have you doing this."

"What if I bought it myself? You'd tell me to stop?" She whimpered, holding her wrist, "I can't stop, I can't… I've tried. It's like a retreat, and whenever I leave it I want to go back in. I can't, Jacob. I can't." She let her tears fall, and watched as her arm bled profusely, dripping onto the mattress.

Jacob recovered from his disappointment and finally took notice, "Stay here, don't move." He went out the door as quick as a fleeing deer.

"Jacob?! Are you going to kick me out? Please, I said I can't help it. Jacob! Come back, please!" In her haze, she managed to notice the growing headache and the inexplicable pain shooting through her arm, as if it was on fire. She was too dumbfounded to understand that she cut herself, and now, Jacob was gone. He was gathering her items to toss out the window, then toss her out after them. She wailed, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.

He went back and slammed the door, a basket in hand, "Calm down, will you? I'm trying to help you."

"W-what are you going to do?" She peered at him as he grabbed the chair by the window, and dragged it to sit in front of her.

"I'm going to stop the bleeding. What does it look like I'm doing? Gathering flowers? Birdwatching?" He put the basket on the ground and took her arm to inspect, "You did a number on yourself, May. Why'd you do Opium? Why? Are you compensating for alcohol?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." She watched her arm alongside him as he turned it over, then reached down to grab some rags and a pair of tiny tweezers, on the verge of becoming brown.

"What happened? Did Will push you into this for… enlightenment, or whatever."

"No, it was Stocker. The old man that saw to my training. Seven years ago, he introduced me to what the squad have been doing in their leisure time, and ever since, I can't stop. I need a hit at least every three weeks."

He began removing the jagged, clear pincers with shaking hands, then deposited them into the rag in his lap. She barely felt the prick of the tweezers through the blur, "You've been smoking through the time you've been around me?"

She parted her lips, unable to reply. She looked away.

"Answer me."

She grumbled, fidgeting "Yes, what does it look like? Can you stop breathing if I asked you to? It's become a part of my existence. I can't stop it."

"You have to stop it. Do you think someone who's after something would take a mind-numbing drug through the mission? It would slip right through."

She rolled her eyes, "I recall alcohol being mind-numbing, Frye."

He furrowed his brows and paused his work, "That's different. I know when to stop, I know my limits. But there's no limits in what you're doing to yourself. The goal is not enjoyment, the goal is complete annihilation of the mind. Do you realize what you're doing?"

She sluggishly wiped a tear, "I know, I know. I'm saying that I can't stop, and you keep saying that I should stop. Why can't you understand?!"

"Because I'm worried! Because I don't know what to do! You..." He looked away to gather his thoughts, swallowing, "You put yourself in danger, I can't have that. I can't have it. And don't ask me why, I won't answer. Take your own guess, I wouldn't mind, but I won't confirm it."

Tears dripped down her chin, and her arm bled and bled, he continued the flinch-worthy business. Muttering incoherently all the time. Leaning closer and closer. Their legs interloped, his knee was between her thighs and vice-versa. He extracted the final shard and let it clink with its brethren. Then he quickly wrapped the rag around them and stuffed them in the basket. Extracting a fresh rag, he dampened it with medicine and began dabbing her arm. That's when the torture breeched the serenity around her—a volcano in the midst of a zen garden. She yelped and clamped down on her fist.

"It'll be just a bit, don't need it turning black on us. Look at me, kitten." She glanced, her eyes red with tears and insomnia, "It'll be alright, I'll help you stop. But you have to promise me that you'll cooperate."

He dabbed the many small cuts, she groaned, "What are you going to do? Put my stash on a roof or something?"

"Yes, I'll put it inside the Big Ben, then I'll see how you climb to it. Or better yet, soak it in lemonade."

She shook her head, "You wouldn't dare."

He covered the sticky blood with the stinging rag, "I would." He gave it a final wipe, wrapped the arm with another rag, then pushed the basket under the bed, "It looks like it won't need any stitches, but we'll have to see. I'll call someone to take care of the mess tomorrow. Everyone is knocked out right now. You can take my bed so you don't step on the glass."

He rose, she seized his wrist.

"Where are you going?"

He looked around, shrugging, "Nowhere."

"Don't."

"What?"

She inhaled, "Don't go anywhere, I can't see what's in front of me. Don't leave."

He studied her tear-smeared cheeks, her shining eyes, "I'm not leaving, May." He wiped a cheek with the back of his hand, smiling. The life returned to his darkened eyes, back to their normal look.

She looked at him, pouting, weeping. He held her shoulders and massaged them, "There… there."

"I… I'm sorry, Jacob."

"For… what?"

"For making you a new enemy."

He studied her eyes, trying to understand what she meant, "Oh, you mean Will? No, I've always disliked him, but I refused to be childish and let my anger show. But you… it isn't your fault-"

"It is! This whole thing started because he wanted to make you jealous."

"No, don't say this. Because first of all, I'm not jealous…"

May showed him a tiny smile, she raised a brow. He ignored that.

"And second, you have nothing to do with this. Will hated me ever since he owed me for taking him in. He doesn't like being indebted to anyone."

"Seems like a sleazy thing to do, thanking you for what you've done like so."

Jacob shrugged, "I didn't expect him to pay me back, nor wanted to. It's enough that he served as my spymaster after Greenie left."

"And do you hate him, do you _really,_ truly hate him?"

Jacob thought for a moment, he leaned back in his chair and watched her tighten the rags around her cuts, "No, I don't like him, but I don't hate him. He has… problems… and…"

May scoffed, "Tell me about it. You know nothing about him."

He looked agitated, "Can you tell me what happened while I was gone?"

Maybelle felt her knees growing weak, she didn't want to share those events with anyone, she didn't even want to remember them.

"Which part? The part where we trained or the part where he bedded me."

Jacob grimaced, but quickly recovered, "Everything, tell me what happened and why. I don't like not knowing things, or else I would've kicked Will out ages ago."

May breathing in, she avoided Jacob's gaze and cleaned the dirt under her fingernails instead, "You… really don't want to know."

"I don't want to, but I need to."

"You don't need to, either."

Jacob sighed.

"May, I know it's not in my position to tell you who you should be with, but as… as a brother, I can tell you whose good for you, and who ain't. And trust me, Will isn't good for you."

"Why? Because you want to be with me instead?"

"No," he groaned exasperatedly, "I told you once that I'm not trying to give you a seeing to, and you didn't believe me."

"I didn't believe you because it's not true."

Jacob opened his mouth to defend himself, but lost the words. He kept his eyes on her, "Whatever it is you think I feel about you, it's not the point. The point is, Will is not the kind of man you'd want to be with."

"And how do you know that?" She asked stubbornly, crossing her arms.

"I've lived and worked with him for many years. Some days, he was the only person I could talk to, the only person I interacted with for weeks… when you're that close to someone for so long a time, you know them more than they know themselves… you memorize them. Will is not a kind man, he's selfish and vindictive and manipulative. He's not worthy of your attention."

Jacob's words felt like a lecture, like acid on her skin, she wanted to escape. She slid away from him and tried to get up, but she felt dizzy and fell, her knees hitting the ground and scraping. She groaned.

Jacob's hands helped her up, "Are you alright? Easy, there."

She tried to stand, "I'm fine… I'm fi-" Her knees betrayed her again. He held her flush to him and refused to let go. It wasn't uncomfortable… no, he was warm, and the way he held her caused joy to cut through the fog. But it was awkward. She felt an obligation to take interest in one man at a time, like a proper lady, but Jacob wasn't making it easy for her.

"It's alright, I got you. You won't fall. Let's get you to bed."

She clutched his collar and his sleeve and looked at him, at the velvety look in his eyes. She smiled, "I still don't believe you."

He smiled back.

He laid her on his own mattress, bent from the constant use of its many previous owners. He left her there to open the window, letting the fresh air clean the remnants of opium and rum. He took off his coat, tossing it on the chair that was still warm from his presence. Then unbuttoned his shirt. His back was to her, but she felt like she was peeping anyway, so she turned around and swiped up the blankets from under her.

"Pity, I was hoping to teach you how to climb." The rustle of clothing, "Now, look what happened to your arm."

She chuckled, it was ridiculous, "You're not teaching me that."

"We agreed on it."

"No, as I recall, we agreed on you teaching me how to fight—which you didn't exactly succeed at doing. I shudder to think of what you'll do with something more dangerous."

"But you have to learn. There's no discussion here, I command you."

She bristled and turned around. He was in his breeches, undoing his boots on the edge of the bloody mattress. She caught herself staring, she sighed, "You're not my boss."

"Not this again…"

She quit arguing with him. Her eyes were heavy, and plus—he wasn't budging on the notion of his leadership over everyone and everything. Let him water his ego, but he's not forcing her to climb.

He laid in her bed and she laid in his. His scent had faded from his bed and was replaced with Will's more potent, indescribable scent. It was far too distressing to smell him, as his scent carried many contrasting memories that returned whenever she inhaled the fruity, papery, yet commandeering scent. But Jacob breathed in all of her as he laid facing her, strands of her hair had glued to the pillow which his face sank halfway in. Her blood was by his feet, still fresh and dark, deep from her veins. He smelled the scarceness of her dreams, yet the parade of hallucinations she had when her lungs bloomed with bittersweet breath. He glanced at her, in his eyes an unspoken desire to get closer. Christ, who in the world had the stupid idea of splitting the double bed in half? Probably her, when she had a firmer grip on logic and reason.

She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was too far, they were disconnected by the nightstand that had a mixture of his and Will's belongings—a notebook, a parcel of candy, leather strips, a comb that touched both scalps. Through the one moment of perfect stupor when their eyes met, her body itched with creeping shivers of ecstasy, pain, and delicious torment. She fell asleep before she could hold out her hand for him, but she felt his green gaze watching over her with unprecedented anguish through most of the night.

* * *

 **Sorry for taking too long to update, was busy with life.**

 **Poor Jacob... :(**


	24. Chapter 24

The passing of three days was torture. It was her burning arm, the calling of Opium, and his batted breath as he trained a new recruit how to properly block. She saw her own face on the young man with the bushy eyebrows and the careful glances, his embarrassment radiating whenever he did something wrong, with Jacob spurring him on. It felt like an out-of-body experience.

Will was nowhere to be found, he disappeared sometime after Jacob allowed her to get out of bed after many hours of resting. Not even Jacob knew where the spymaster went, and he didn't seem to care. He probably went to see one of his spies, or to sacrifice virgins for a 'good cause'.

She sat by the docks with her feet dangled, watching the seagulls float overhead and circle around a post of a small sailing ship. Men toiled aboard, dealing with the outdated transportation, loosening sails, scrubbing the railings. She wondered if it could fit under a bridge without the post breaking off.

"No, lad! Keep those hands up! Who taught you to block?!"

A jittery voice, "Sir, nobody, sir. You… called me here so you could teach me. So, I suppose you taught me how to block, sir."

"Do I cross you as a sir? Boy, I'm the farthest from a sir you'd ever come across. You want to see a sir? Go ahead and jog to Finsbury Circus. Move it, lad!"

"Sir, are you… are you serious?"

"I'm dead serious, jog until you see the limes, then get back here. I want to see a visible change in your abdomen within two hours. Move it!"

The sound of thin, running feet. Jacob brushed past the parliament of Rooks, taking it easy, discussing the happenings as they sipped on tea and munched on biscuits. Crumbs were everywhere, so much that Jacob's foot kicked some of it her way as he approached.

"Having fun by the docks?" He asked, crouching to join her. He let his legs dangle alongside hers. Maybelle's calves itched with the moistness of seaweed, and it began to taint Jacob's ironed breeches.

"Does it look like I'm not?"

"Had to break the ice somehow," He beamed, then looked her over, "You look better with your hair down, makes you look more… prominent. It's hard not to notice you."

She narrowed her eyes, "I'm not sure if that's a compliment… is my hair that vicious? I'm sure it's flatter than a pie Hayward sat on."

He snorted, "No, I meant it as a compliment. Makes you unmissable, like the sun. I love your hair." He reached out to touch a tendril, but she slapped his hand away, laughing.

"What do you want, Jacob?"

He smiled as if he just received an award, "I want you to always call me by my first name, that's a start."

She rolled her eyes, "What else do you want?"

He looked back at the gangsters, monkeying around, munching on freshly baked biscuits, pushing each other in mock battles, "I've been thinking. You hate climbing because you're afraid you'd fall, is that correct?"

"What else would I be afraid of?"

"What's at the top, perhaps?" He looked around, putting a fingertip between his lips, "Maybe you're using climbing as a metaphor for advancement, you're afraid to climb further up, because then you'd end up alone, despised, envied, and you'll end your own life surrounded by nothing but your money and your unending regret."

May raised a brow, "Or maybe I'm just afraid of falling and turning into Jam."

He scratched his chin, "Yes, that's also possible," he paused for a moment, then added, "In any case, I'm taking you on a field trip to a high point in London. To bolster your spirits, to convince you the height is your friend."

"No, no it's not. It's a tool. A double-edged blade. A beast that could turn on you any moment." May turned to the water, looking out, "It feels like it's always been there, the fear of falling. Even before… before…"

"Before what?"

She cleared her throat and listened to the thrum of the waking day, "Nothing. It's just… standing on a high enough point, it could take your breath away. Not just because of its beauty, but because of its danger. One single misstep, one slip, and you're dead. And you can also stay at the top, and rain death on people who didn't even see you. As if you're invisible. The height is not my friend, Jacob, it's my abuser who I forcefully depend on."

Jacob looked around, then shrugged, "So, you're still coming, then?"

* * *

It was enough for Jacob that she was apparently comfortable scaling the headquarters' low walls. In his eyes, her fears vanished sometime during the last few weeks, someone or something happened and they turned things upside down. His May was no longer his May.

And he was right, but Maybelle would never let him know.

That notion was enough for Jacob, because they were standing with St Paul's in front of them, and he had that familiar look in his jade eyes, the one that appeared whenever he was faced with a delicious challenge. Just a hint of proudness was lost in the gleam, as if he was looking upon his own creation. The great dome peered at them, inquisitive. It's summit inviting them yet boasting about its untouchable holiness. Maybelle ignored the majestic scene and focused on Jacob instead.

"So, _this_ is the building you wanted me to climb? Or are we just sightseeing?"

He let his hands fall from his hips, "No, we're getting up there. You're not a religious person, are you? Even if you are, now's not the time for a pilgrimage. Your uncle could trace us and steal the map, and you're still shivering at the mere sight of a vertical structure. Do you think the Templars fear a thing such as heights? They don't let any mortal or immortal danger stop them from what they want, that's why they've been fighting ever since the dawn of time."

Maybelle wanted to laugh, "I'm sorry I inconvenience you."

"You're not inconveniencing me. You're just… well, I…"

She ignored his stammering, "You know, if we climbed that thing, the bishop will come out to smite us. Condemn us to the deepest layer of hell. If he didn't, the police will do the work for him and suspect vandalism upon the sight. I'd hate to be on the paper, Jacob."

"I suspect Paul the apostle will dig out of his grave to smite us, himself. But I'm sure he'd understand, I'm sure everyone will."

"Yes, they will completely understand why we need to be locked up in an asylum. Not even for a cure for our lunacy, no. We would be brave experiments for the betterment of humankind." She walked across the circular churchyard, with zero intent to beseech the sophisticated marvel. He followed as if his plan was going well, "Face it, you've absorbed some of Will's unaccountability, you think everyone will forgive the act."

"No, they won't. But they won't bother to follow us to the top."

She stopped when she reached the steps, halting to peer at the towering building that was almost-always filled with harmonious prayers. The ancient place was a palace of unending, golden grace, always crowded with tourists or priests or those seeking blessings. The columned entrance beckoned her to view the polished nave and golden vaults, Thornhill's illusive sepia-toned painting. Mind-boggling beauty. But instead, she was stuck with the phantom. Outside.

He paced before her, remembering the perfect way to ascend as his eyes scanned the walls of the cathedral. She watched him numbly.

"Of all the places in London you could've taken me to poke fun at my climbing, you chose the highest. What exactly is wrong with you?" She rolled her eyes, "You know what? Never mind. Let's scale it."

His smile was playful, "I didn't say anything about scaling it. We'll take the steps. I want you to simply be at the top, to breathe in the strong winds, to look upon London. I wouldn't force you to climb a cathedral after you graduated from a two-story wall."

She shook her head, glancing at the golden cross that indicated the summit with its glimmer, "What's the point of this? This is so stupid."

He approached her and spoke in a voice only she heard, "Up there, it's easy to laugh in the very face of fear. It's like letting an aquaphobic float on a raft in the ocean, or introducing a tame wolf to an animal-fearing man. The threat is right before your eyes, but it will never harm you, you have to believe that."

"And then the man drowns, and the wolf decides it's hungry."

"I love your optimism, kitten." Jacob said dryly.

"And I love that you come up with the most ridiculous ideas ever witnessed by mankind."

At the golden gallery, the wind spoke to them before they could speak to each other. The acute wind overwhelmed their faint voices, but they were close enough to hear each other's whispers. Jacob was leaning on the black-and-gold railings as if he was drinking wine on a flat's low balcony. He was like a nesting hawk—right at home. At five-hundred-and-fifty steps above ground, Maybelle stuck to the wall for a few minutes, then decided to stand next to Jacob. She looked down, at the dizzying height that made her shiver. She shook her head and blinked. Nothing's going to happen, she told herself. I fell through an abyss, and lived.

His gaze roamed across the shining skyline, and smiled at the persistent stomp of a million footsteps and the quick strides of a thousand hooves. The unified soul that ambled on through rain and sun, evergreen. At the very top, everything seemed miniature, as if you're one with the stars. As if you're reminded that every problem is a small ordeal compared to the constant heartbeat of the universe. London was a brown and black blur on the east, that carefully and gradually morphed into the golden sophistication of the west.

"My presence isn't the condition you have to follow to be here. If you grew the will to climb, you can visit here anytime you want." He said, nudging her with his shoulder.

"I'm not climbing anything, I'll just take the steps."

"Did I take the steps?" He shrugged, waiting for the laughable lie or the bitter truth.

"Yes, yes you did."

Jacob paused, eyes narrowing in recognition, "Oh, yes… I remember now."

"I bet you climb everything, even a footstool."

Jacob said nothing, but he snickered.

"You know, first time I ever saw you climb, you used your gauntlet to do it. Why can't I have one of these things so we could both move on?"

He looked at her as if she had an arm for a head, "Because you're not an assassin. You tend to forget—this isn't just a mechanism to climb whatever you point it at. It's also a blade, and a poison. It takes years just getting used to having such a thing in your wrist, or else you'll cut your own throat when you're scratching your nose." He gave her a onceover, "Last time I checked, you weren't interested in what I did or believed, anyway."

She inhaled the crisp air, clear of stagnant water and rotting vegetables, "I'm not interested now, either."

"Then I'm afraid the mechanism is our secret to keep from people like you. Not a Templar, shall we say, but an onlooker. A stranger. You might know a great deal about us because of that nose of yours that you like to stuff up people's arses, but you aren't even close to being one of us."

"It would make everything easier for both of us." She reasoned with a forced smile.

"I think it would rather complicate things further."

She looked at him, noting his evident scar that cut through his eyebrow. She imagined the sting he felt, the dripping blood that hindered his vision, after whatever blade cut him, "Can I ask you a question?"

He glanced interestedly, eyes narrowing, "Just ask the question, May."

"Who taught you how to use it, anyway?"

He exhaled, "You read my journals, you know exactly who did."

"Not all of it. But I know that your father was Ethan Frye, I suppose he was behind everything. Since I saw a note complaining about Evie's Ethan-like ways."

He looked at the miracle of life beyond the railings, "Then you've answered your own question."

"What… what was he like? Ethan, I mean." She hoped she wasn't prying, but at least Jacob's reaction was far more predictable than Will when it came to his past. It's either anger, or indifference.

"He was… I suppose he was a good father. I never appreciated him being there because his role as my mentor outshined his role as my parent. That, and our constant bickering. I still believe he favoured Evie, because she listened to him, and I didn't. I don't blame him, who doesn't like being obeyed?"

Maybelle scoffed, running her hands over the rusting metal, "A favoured sibling, I suppose Evie and I have a nice little connection."

"What do you mean?"

He was inviting her down a spiral that would lead places she didn't want to revisit. This rabbit hole in particular was a trap. The Jabberwocky awaited.

Too bad she decided to face it.

"Well, my sister, Myra. She thought mother treated me better, liked me better. She shielded me from the worst beatings from my father and let me go out to play in the yard as she dealt with Ashton's drunken wrath. I don't know where Myra got the idea, because mother did the same for her." Maybelle sighed, remembering the grey eyes that usually looked at her with barely-controlled disdain. Maybelle's hands found the necklace under her clothing. She held out the lavender spheroid for Jacob, "I guess it's because of this."

"This?"

"Yes. Mother gave it to me, but Myra never got anything from her. It was a gift for my seventh birthday. Father was somewhat sober on that day. He told her, 'oh Josie. I wish I had enough money to buy Maybelle a celebration and a gift, but the barkeep 'round the block is waiting for his shillings. See you soon'. He went out and returned some three days later. I spent my birthday under my bed, crying. Mother looked for me the entire night.

"Mother had this talent with homemade jewellery, it only made sense her gift was this. But I didn't expect it to be this extravagant. It was butter upon bacon. I told her, mommy, daddy will be angry because you gave me a year's worth of money to hang around my neck. She told me that I'm priceless, that priceless girls should be marked by priceless things against their necks. She told me thousands and thousands of clams were opened to find this… this miracle. She told me I was that precious. I never took it off since."

Jacob reached up to feel the dangling centrepiece decorating her milky collar, "It's… rough."

"That's how you know it's not glass. It's real, innumerable tiny crystals bundling up a pest problem inside the clam. If I've fallen on hard times, I could sell this for a fortune, but I can't bring myself to do such a thing. I would never…" She held Jacob's wrist, looking away, "I'm sorry for not telling you about myself, you deserve to know. I should've told you. I should've told you everything. The weight of her ghost is too much to bear. I never shared the pain with anyone. Not even my uncle knows the full story."

"Then tell me, I'm right here." He freed his hand to caress her cheek for a moment, she peered into his soulful eyes.

"I'm going to tell you quick, because I don't want to remember it, you better catch it all." He nodded, and she smiled, "Her father was French, she came with him to England, a vacation. The old man loved travelling, I wish I had met him. When they stopped to visit Nottinghamshire, she met Ashton. He wasn't an alcohol-crazed arsehole, then. She's lucky for being there to witness his untainted soul. She left my grandfather to marry him, and some years later, they had two children. He'd already began his fall into alcohol abuse, and indulged in another sort of abuse as well. You know most of that part." She shivered as a gust of wind threatened to throw her off the edge.

"What happened after?"

"It started as a relatively nice day. A warm day in June that we spent in the yard. Me and Myra stayed outside and played with marbles, and Ashton dragged mother inside to talk. Things got heated, so we rose to investigate. They were in the second story, in our bedroom, bickering, shouting at each other as if it was a contest. Myra stood by the doorframe, listening to their age-old quarrel with weary eyes.

"I moved into my room and tried to intervene, something I've seldom tried to do. Ashton pushed me aside and started beating mother, she began to struggle. He kicked her and… just… pushed her out of the open window. I could do nothing but listen to her one short yell as she plummeted, Ashton watched numbly, knee-deep in shock. Myra was still at the doorframe, the stoical face I remembered melting to reveal something I've never seen on anyone before. After I climbed down in tears to see the horrifically-bent corpse, Ashton withdrew into the kitchen with a pistol. I heard a gunshot after. Then Myra stood at the door, surveying the onlookers who came to help me. She gave me a look, told me that father shot himself. Then sort of… drifted out of the scene. It was the last time I've seen those grey eyes."

Jacob looked at her, removing his hand, realization visibly dawning on him, "So you… you fear this…" He pointed to the far ground, "You fear heights, because your mother died that way?"

"I guess I was traumatized. Yes. Every time I look down, I see her mangled body."

His fists clenched and unclenched, he moved towards her, as if to embrace her, but he never did, "I… I thought… I'm sorry. I didn't know. I—"

"You thought I was some hopeless little girl who grew an attitude but not a backbone. Everyone has that assumption. I don't exactly look menacing, you see…" She gestured to herself.

"I didn't consider a reason behind your fear, I just… considered it as a foregone element, it was there. How or why… I didn't know. I didn't ask."

She smiled, "If I learned one thing, just _one_ thing through my entire lifespan. It's that everything has a reason. There's always an action, and a reaction. What is motivation but a reaction to an action?"

He chuckled, "You're beginning to sound like father, or Evie. With all your philosophy." Jacob looked at the horizon, unasked questions brewing in his mind, "I think I owe you an apology."

"You owe me nothing but a promise that you won't tell a soul. I never told anyone about this, it just… lingered in my memory, a reminder, a constant spectre."

"I promise." He said firmly, without question, "But why me? Why not Will? Why not Agnes?"

She sighed, "I don't know, I trust you. I… whenever you're present, I feel invincible. As if you're doing all the work for me, looking over your shoulder for anyone whose after me. Catching me if a fall… Babysitting me when I'm high. And cheering me up when I'm low. I… I never felt this way with Will. Safe. At ease."

"Do you like him?" He asked, avoiding her gaze. Fidgeting with his sleeves.

She thought about it, "I'm not sure. He knows his bed manners, if you get my drift."

Jacob grimaced.

"But I don't think he views me as anything more than a good lay…"

"And are you fine with that? Are you really giving yourself to someone like him and gain nothing in return? If he treated you right, if he's a good man with good intentions, I… I would give you my blessings. But as I told you, he's not a good man. Trust me. He'll keep doing what he's doing to you, and he'll keep you clinging on the faintest sliver of hope. Don't give yourself to him."

May stared at Jacob, noticing the pained crinkles at his narrowed eyes, "You seem to know him a lot more than I thought, Jacob."

He said nothing, but weakly held her gaze.

She sighed, "You're probably right, it was a mistake. I can't believe I let all of this happen to me, was I drunk the entire time? All of it was miserable mistake, listening to him, letting him boss me around, getting in bed with him, letting him _train_ me. Yeah, right. It's closer to abusing me, rather."

"What?"

"You don't need to know, Jacob. Just know that I understand what you're going on about, and I'll… try to do something about it."

Jacob sighed, then looked at May, glowing pain filling his eyes, "You must. I have no idea why I spared you on that roof, but… I'm glad I did. I can't bear to see those blue eyes closing. And I'll be damned if it was by the hands on my own spymaster."

She smiled gently, and put a hand on his shoulder, "Thank you, I'm glad you did, too. Or else I wouldn't have known what a cheeky pain in the arse you are."

And she pulled him closer into a tight embrace.


	25. Chapter 25

Two days later, and Will was still missing.

One week later, and he was nowhere to be found. He seemed to have vanished, taking all evidence of his existence with him. Jacob sent Rooks, allies, and connections to see if he was killed by his own spies, or if he left London and looked for greener pastures or more profitable endeavors. Either way, Jacob was worried.

She saw him stumble into the main room at midnight, boots covered in mud, coat damp. With so much exhaustion in his eyes that he barely noticed her drinking tea by the window.

She saw him look under his bed for any items that belonged to Will, maybe he left something, _anything_ , that could tell Jacob where his spymaster went.

She saw him drink himself to sleep, downing glass after glass of gin. Stumbling out of his stool and falling, and falling into a deep slumber right there.

She saw him brooding by the docks, clutching the only item Jacob found that was related to Will. The comb that they both used.

And she saw why he was so terribly opposed to the idea of herself getting with Will.

And when watching Jacob turn into a husk was too much to bear, May sought after the only thing in the world that made her feel happy, safe, and warm all at once.

May put her cheek to the ground and tried to find the bag she always stashed under the closet, her hand felt and felt, reached the wall and back again, but it was nowhere to be found.

Was this Will's doing? Did he reclaim the reward he gave her? A little part of May was glad he was probably killed by the Assassins' enemies. She closed her eyes and forced the disgustingly gratifying idea to fade away.

Her fingers brushed a familiar shape, one made of leather. She pulled it out, it was Will's candy parcel. May looked at the closed door. She could run to Jacob, open the parcel together to see if he left something in there, whether dangerous or not. But he was probably drunk or gambling his fortune away in some shady pub, or both.

She inhaled and opened the parcel.

She was not greeted by the smell of raspberry candy, nor the uncomfortable sight of a lit bomb, there was a folded paper there. A letter, she immediately thought. In the one place Jacob didn't know about, but May did. A letter for her.

She unfolded the paper and tossed the empty parcel back under the closet.

 _Great Tower St. I will find you there. Bring no one and nothing._

May blinked, she read the letter again. Will was inviting her, to what? A trap? Was he in trouble somehow and was trying to contact her? No, Will placed this letter in here before he went missing. He couldn't have crept passed a dozen Rooks and a half-drunk-but-still-protective Jacob, just to place a stupid letter instead of talking to her face.

He planned this, but why? She didn't know.

If this was another life, she would let Jacob know. She would go with the assassin to retrieve his precious spymaster. They would argue like a married couple, and forgive each other eventually. And the three of them would focus on annihilating the Templars one by one.

But it was her life. Life in sodden old London that crushes the weak and poor and addles the rich with their own power. This is the only world she knew, one that doesn't forgive mistakes.

She stood with the letter against her chest as if someone was watching, and moved to her nightstand, where a half-burned candle propped up using its own wax, and a box of matches, waiting for the cold night. She lit a match and held the thin paper to the flame, watching it as it turned black and rain fragile, ashy bits on her lap. If this was a trap meant for her, she wasn't about to drag Jacob down with her.

She donned a full black attire that a Rook abandoned after it became too tight for his growing muscles. The Rook outfit Jacob gave her was smeared with mud, and the sleeves smelled of blood and salted meat. She threw the articles on her bed and hoped Jacob wouldn't wake up from his alcohol-induced coma and chase after her.

She hurried to the door, but before she opened it, her mind drifted to the dagger and revolver she kept under her pillow. Will saw them once and joked about them, playfully accusing her of not trusting him. Well, it seemed to be the reason, and it still is. She hid the weapons under layers of clothing and set out to the Tower.

* * *

With a cloud-wrapped moon and a few dim gaslights as her only guide, she trudged through the dewy night, watching every soul warily as they passed by, throwing her both odd and lewd looks. She dressed all in black for a reason. She didn't want to be seen, not by Jacob, and not by those people, and for a fleeting moment she found herself wanting to disappear from Will as well.

The Tower was behind her, its walls ancient and wrought, protected by the watchful eyes of the royal guard who loitered on the roofs, glaring at whoever dared to beseech the castle. The tops of their bearskin hats appearing momentarily as tall, round silhouettes before vanishing. She wondered if Jacob ever scaled those walls, since he seemed to have climbed every building in London.

May walked closer to the walls of the buildings, trying not to bump into drunkards and muggers and gangs that weren't the Rooks. She was in the heart of Great Tower street, and Will still haven't showed up. She knew it, she knew he would lure her out and decide not to meet her after all. What were his intentions? Did he want to see Jacob alone? Those two should get a damn room, and not the one she shares with them.

May decided to wait by the pavement, watching carriages and delivery wagons, and pickpockets as they tried to snatch a fat purse or a heavy ruby necklace. She brought her feet close and stood taller, braving through the cold wind and willing to stay for just a big longer. The urgency in Will's handwriting instilled a vague unease in her heart. It was far too interesting, far too frightening to avoid. But here she was, like an idiot, waiting in the cold for a man who she knew wouldn't show up. And for what? Did she still feel something for him? If he viewed her as something more than a good exercise—in so many ways—then things would be different, _he_ would be different.

She squeezed her eyes shut, she didn't know what to think or how to feel about him. He gives her something, then pretends it never happened, then repeats the cycle. And she takes it, as if the high of his attention was worth the low of his abuse. No, no longer. She walked out here to see why he's been missing, she did _not_ have any feelings for him.

When she almost gave up on a bittersweet wish, a carriage stopped in front of her. The door opened from the inside, and the first thing she saw in the curtained darkness was Will's grey eyes.

"Get in." He said, and leaned back in the backwards-facing seat.

She looked around, then at the driver. This is a hansom. But something told her it was also something beyond that. She sighed and got in, closing the door behind her.

The carriage immediately moved forward. The street whizzed by.

Will was silent for a long moment, listening to the world with closed eyes. He wasn't wearing his coat, no, he was wearing brown and black, with a top hat on his head, perfectly fitting him. He was wearing black leather gloves, and was wearing a tight scowl to match his dark attire.

"Will."

"May."

"Why have you summoned me? I thought… I thought you were in danger."

Will barely looked at her, he turned his head to the window and looked behind the curtain at the lights. His eyes almost glowed forbiddingly. Deep and fierce. May felt the urge to escape the carriage somehow.

"Do you trust me?" He said in a broken voice.

"What?"

"I need to know this before we say anything, do you trust me?"

The question was complex, and it raised so many more questions, "I don't know. But then again, I try not to trust anyone."

"That's good, trust shouldn't be given freely. After all, people all want the best for themselves, never for other people."

"That's not true…" She remembered the Morvells. Were their generosity only a way to repay the heavenly debt they were in? She didn't think so. Or at least, maybe it was so when it first started, but then it changed into giving for the sake of giving.

"That is true, May. People don't sacrifice themselves for others. People are selfish."

"So, you deny the sacrifice your mother made for you and your brother?"

He clenched his teeth. May thought he was about to strike. But he never moved an inch.

"That's the only human who ever sacrificed for me, but after her, no one ever did. I gave my life to Jacob, all my power, all my allies, and he was nothing but a pain to me. A thorn in my side."

"He kept you safe. He sheltered you! He gave you a job! How could you say this about him?"

"Kept me safe? He forced me to work for him, to join the Assassins. As if I wanted to join a cult. I was a young boy, then, I didn't know why or how or what, I didn't know anything. I only knew I had to kill or rob or pillage to survive, and that suited Jacob just fine. He didn't need to explain to me what killing was, or what he did when he wasn't looking for the next Templar to butcher. I was already an assassin in his eyes, he just had to get me on his side."

"William, I don't think-"

"And he just sits there, with his gauntlets and contracts and poisons he forced me to make for him, while pretending that what he's doing is the right thing. What he's doing is for a good cause. He's saving mankind, he's destroying those who wish to enslave it."

"Isn't he?! You'd prefer if the Templars took over?!"

The carriage stopped, Will darted out and left the door open, he stood by a door that led to a beige building. He looked at her, impatient. May huffed and climbed out of the carriage, closing the door behind her and watching as the driver spurred his horse away. She looked around, not recognizing the area in the darkness, but she probably wouldn't in the light either.

Will fished for a set of keys and unlocked the door, already taking off the hat that was so unlike him. May followed after him to a set of stairs and two doors that led to separate flats. He went to the one on the right and unlocked, going in and tossing the hat, his coat, and his keys on a small table by the door. May closed the door and waited by it.

He immediately moved to the tiny kitchen which was basically a larder and a small coal stove. He swept up a teapot with a short spout and snatched two cups from an open cabinet filled with more candy than china. He walked to May and handed her a cup, and poured a brown, lukewarm liquid in it. She eyed the cup with some distaste.

"Have you ever tried Cocoa before? It's the most delicious thing your lips will touch. It's supposed to be served hot, but we took too long getting here."

Then he poured himself a cup and walked to a coffee table, put down the teapot, and plopped on a small plain love seat. With the cushions sinking so low they almost touched the ground.

He looked up at her as he sipped the rich, sweet beverage, "Take a seat, kitten. We have a lot to discuss." He slapped the love seat with his empty hand.

"Don't call me kitten, only Jacob calls me that."

"And now I call you that, too. It's not my fault Jacob likes to replace names with nicknames so thoroughly that you forget your own name."

She took a sip, licking her lips afterwards, it was cold, but it was still amazing. It kissed her tongue with a sharp sizzle, is this chili? That's odd, she thought.

She walked to the free spot next to William and carefully sat down, she sunk, her knees rising above her bottom.

They sipped in silence, both enjoying the sweet taste. Will's apartment was so obviously his. For a person who knows what evidence can do, Will didn't try to hide his tracks. The coffee table was overrun with stains of either wine or chocolate. There was this odd smell of stale candy clinging to the air and the furniture. And the cushion underneath her felt lumpy, as if there's bags or candy wrappers or stashed cans of cookies stuffed under it. The color of the walls and the floor was stark white, unblemished and untouched. Much like his coat even after all the dirty deeds he's committed with it on his back.

They finished their beverages, and placed them on the coffee table. Will wiped his lips with the back of his hand, May crossed her arms and tried to read his mind. Indifferent eyes and steady breathing practically numbed her. He looked as if he fell asleep with his eyes open.

"William, what do you want?"

"I want to tell you what you're doing."

"What? What am I doing?" She looked at herself, as if he was describing an action in the present.

"You're chasing after a dream."

She stared at him, trying to decipher his words. A dream? All she ever had was nightmares.

"What dream? What are you talking about? Stop speaking in cryptic words."

"No, you're literally chasing after a dream. I watched over you after you made me stab you with the fear spike. I heard you whisper a name, and talk about a gauntlet, and saw you listen to the ghostly pleas of a dead woman. Yara is dead, May, she's been dead for thousands of years. The gauntlet is lost-"

"No, no! Stop right there, I'm not listening to your nonsense."

"It's the truth. I went to her tomb, the Isu vault. It's in North Yorkshire, upstream of Ingleton waterfalls. It's nothing but a ruin, and the gauntlet was nowhere to be found. I found gold tablets with etchings about everything that ever was, including the story of the keeper of these tablets. But that's it, there's nothing else, and I want you to know that. What you dreamed is something anyone who comes in contact with the map will suffer, visions that urge you to find the vault, to fall into the trap. You dreamed of Yara because she was like you, a prisoner who wanted to be free. But she's dead. And there's no gauntlet."

Thoughts, questions, and a boiling anger gathered in May's head, she felt like fainting. Her face felt cold and her feet colder, "No, you're lying. The map is undecipherable, there's no way anyone could translate it, you're a fraud."

"The map is undecipherable now, but what about… before?"

She looked at him with a pair of teary eyes, "What do you mean?"

"I looked for the gauntlet once, before the Assassins or the Templars even knew of its existence. And you know what I found? After years of research and yearning and searching, years of pretending and hiding and promising myself. I found nothing but a vault full of the skeletons of those who tried to claim the gauntlet for their own, those who fell into the trap the Isu set for them the same way they set for Yara. I read her thoughts, etched on black stone instead of gold, slathered in blood, as if she scrawled them with her own nails. I witnessed her descent into madness through lines of ancient sorrow that covered the walls. And you think she's still alive? You think anyone who looked for the gauntlet is? The piece of Eden lures men into its dark pit, coercing them with tales of unimaginable power. And when they believe it, it imprisons them to guard the secrets of the Isu. I survived because I didn't take the bait, instead, I destroyed the clue that leads to it."

"You… you sabotaged the map?"

"I made sure no one ends up in the vault, but cling to the false hope that there's a buried treasure waiting for them."

"Why?" She asked, dreading the answer.

Will leaned closer, "Because it's the only way one could manipulate both the Assassins and the Templars at the same time, dangle a piece of Eden in front of them, and they flock to the merest chance of getting to it, committing unbelievable acts on the journey, mostly to each other, until they find the end of the line, and find it was all for naught," he rose and paced in front of her, "Don't you see? I'm trying to destroy them both! I'm ridding the world of them, and when they're gone, they will no longer force young, innocent children to join their war! You were a Templar once, one that didn't even know what kind of war you were in. You were one of those henchmen who fought blindly for a cause you didn't understand, and if you did, wouldn't believe in. Indoctrination is the worst of crimes, and you and I, we are a victim of it. Victims because we had no other choice."

"It's not only us, there are hundreds of people who lost their old lives to join the Templars, and more to join the Assassins…" She looked at her lap, feeling as if she was about to go insane, the words he was saying were too much, as if he was reciting a play, a fantasy that could never take place.

"But none of them are like you. I watched you, May," He kneeled in front of her, trying to look into her eyes, "I watched you every night your uncle hosted a banquet or a ball, I watched you suffer. I saw myself in you, someone who was thrown into this disgusting city because their family was torn apart by the seams, someone who was forced to go to war because it's the only way you could survive."

"How did you get in my uncle's banquets?" She asked, a tear slid down her cheek, but she barely noticed it.

"Don't you see? I am Ellis Cervantes, the Templar chemist. I am William Franczak, the Assassin spymaster. I am my own brother, the leader of the disbanded gang that escaped the authorities until it simply vanished. I am a murderer and a fraud and a liar. And I am a gentleman and a businessman and a smiling idiot who pretends to be in love. I am anything, and everything I want to be. I am always more. And I will never be what someone else wants me to be."

May raised her head, and looked right into the eyes of the universe. It was churning, turning, exploding with firmness and strength unimaginable, drowning in hatred and love all at once, alight with joy, deep dark with sorrow. It was everything that could be and could not. It made her eyes hurt, and made her heart pump blood through her veins faster than it ever did before.

"I want to wipe them out, May, so nothing could hurt you or me ever again. I almost lost you, right in the midst of the troops I sought to both free and destroy, but I found you, and I won't let you fall into the trap I made for them. I want you to come with me. To join me. To stand with me."

"William, this is insane…"

"No, this is not insane. It's the only sane thing in this city."

"I… can't…" She stood, moving away from him on shaking legs, "I can't partake in massacring hundreds and hundreds of innocents, people from both sides I lived with and fought with!"

"We will only rid the world of those who force them to fight their filthy war."

"There are those who would follow their leaders beyond death."

"Then those die with their beloved leaders."

He stood, May stepped back, stopped near the door if she needed to make a swift exit. William stayed his ground, but he offered his hand, "I want you, Maybelle Willis. I want us to get revenge together. I want you to stay by my side forever."

She looked at his hand, "What of Jacob? You'd kill him?"

A growl stayed lodged in his throat, "Of course, he's the first to die."

"No," she stepped further back, "No, no, I won't join you in killing him."

"And why not?"

She sobbed, "Because he doesn't deserve it."

"He betrayed you! He almost killed you!"

"And you almost killed me! You hit me so much that I couldn't see straight for days, and you joined him in his plan to stab me in the back whether we find a gauntlet or not!"

"It was all part of the act," He moved around the coffee table and slowly approached, "Come on, join me, be with me. I promise you'll be happier than you ever were."

"No, I won't." She shook her head, standing defensively with her shoulder against the door.

Will paused, lips parting, and for a moment he looked innocent, like a confused child. Then he let his hand drop and his frown appear.

"I'm afraid you've no other choice."

"Oh yeah? Why is that?"

"Because you have nowhere else to go. Not anymore."

"What do you mean? What did you do?!" She asked, but he never replied, "What did you do?! What did you do to the headquarters?!"

May's heart pounded, adrenaline shot through her veins. She darted to the door and tried to open it, but her hand was sweaty and flimsy. Will came behind her as fast as lightning, seizing her collar and dragging her off the door. He slammed her into the wall and fixed her in place with a forearm digging into her neck. She choked, gasping for air.

"You will _not_ abandon me, not for him, and not for anyone."

"I don't belong to you…" She wheezed, "And if you think I do, then you're no better than any of them."

Before he could reply, she delved in her layers of clothing and found the revolver, she aimed it under her arm and fired. Will stepped back, easing the tremendous pressure from her reddening flesh. She didn't stop to see what she'd done, but she heard him cry out as she pried open the door, she almost stumbled down the stairs.

She broke out into the night, a strong wind cooled her lungs and made her body tingle. She rushed away from the building, barely seeing what's in front of her, not daring to look behind her. Horses neighed and drivers yelled, gasping at the smoking gun in her hand. Her eyes stung against the wind, and she tasted a bitterness to it that didn't have anything to do with the cold.

She blinked and stopped in front of a moving carriage, the driver swore loudly and pulled the reins so hard the horse reared and moved uneasily for many seconds.

"What are you, blind?! Or suicidal?!" The driver said, rising slightly as if he meant to step down.

May aimed the revolver at him, the words caught in his throat and he raised his hands at once, "Get. Out."

"What?"

She stomped to the side of the carriage, "Get out!"

"Alright alright! I'm getting out!"

As soon as he climbed down, she climbed up and spurred the horse on with a shout and a lash of the reins. It didn't matter if the coppers noticed the crime and were on her tail, maybe they'd stop whatever Will did.

The horse neighed in surprise and hurried towards the eye of the storm.

* * *

One person could do more damage than hundreds, perhaps even thousands of men gathered and united, an army. One person could eradicate the life of thousands. One person could bend a city to his will.

She never thought it was possible, but she was staring at evidence of its possibility. The headquarters was in flames, the twin buildings and the warehouse burning endlessly as if it produced fire from within. When one is faced by such a tremendous, powerful, _real_ sight, there's nothing one couldn't believe. Will was more dangerous than many things she'd seen. She'd raised her rifle at armed men, killed some and disabled others. She walked through fire. And endured the heights for years. She lived under the roof of two merciless Templars who treated their own family like prisoners. And she went against an assassin, and survived.

But this, this demon that wanted to burn the world, she didn't think she could escape him. It was easy to believe it, and easy to let go and give up.

But she wasn't going to.

Her feet hit the ground and she rushed towards the flames, bursting through the tongues and ignoring the smell of singed hair. Rooks were battling inside the ring of fire, sword to sword and gun to gun with the men she saw while spying on Cain. Rooks stood on ledges and fired bullets that missed and bounced off the blackened ground. Glass burst on the right, a body falling out of the window, seemingly hurled by someone lurking within the flames. The corpse landed in front of May, still on fire, marred and unrecognizable.

She whipped out her dagger, and tried to figure out who she's supposed to kill. She dodged a man or a woman on fire, their voice too high pitched to be either. The person jumped into the Thames, dying of disease rather than burning. Blood spilled out of a slit throat on her left, spraying on her sleeve. A man in black, expressionless, wiped his knife on his chest and marched towards her. She raised her gun and fired at the head, the soldier died soundlessly, not even his body thudded, as if he was seized by a sudden sleep. As if he was already dead and was reanimated to fight them.

She almost slipped as she hurried to the building that used to be the main room, someone bumped into her, and fell on top of her, she heard a blood-curdling scream and could only see fire. Then she felt a sting on her arms that quickly became an unbearable pain that made her want to die instead of go through it. She kicked the burning body away and rolled on the ground to put herself out. She didn't know if it was a Templar or an Assassin, she didn't see a face she recognized, or hear a voice she knew. She only saw death, death, death. Pain. Misery. The orange light bathing the battlefield. Rooks and Templars fell around her, or ran, unable to douse the flames that devoured them whole. Everywhere around her was a walking nightmare sewn out of flesh and fire.

She stood, then didn't think, but jumped through the door frame and tried to take in the scene within.

A man in black was on the ground, surrounded by cinders and shards of wood. A figure moved in her vision and came up to her, something glinting in his hand. May dodged before she even understood what he was trying to do. The bullet whizzed by, and then another she felt kiss her shoulder, May fired back, missing. Then the gun slipped out of her grasp. She couldn't see through the flames, couldn't think, and couldn't feel anything but pain and heat.

Cain's scarred face came to view, he lowered his gnarled arm and snarled at her, putting his boot on her chest.

"You're finally here? Good, I wanted to see your face, I wanted to kill you myself. And I wanted you to see the beauty of this, as well." He raised his arms to the flames, as if welcoming an old friend. His figure was back-lit by the light, and in all his burned glory, he smiled at her.

He itched his thick beard. Beneath the right side of his facial hair the scars showed, melted, tangling flesh, "I think you already know who I am, so, introductions shan't be made."

Despite her pain and fear, she smiled, "Of course I do. Everyone knows everyone in this war, we shouldn't be surprised."

He chuckled, scratching his temple with the barrel of his gun, "You know, we met before. When you were younger, almost fresh from Nottinghamshire, I came to report to the Viscount, and saw your little face peering at me from a corner while I pretended to discuss good coffees with the Viscount. And I saw you again, and again, almost twice a year. You might've not noticed me, or noticed the constant change my face undergoes. The increasing scars, the milky eye that burned shut some years back, and reopened through a painful surgery," he eyed her, almost with appreciation, "such a pity that you fled from Hayward's custody to join these… repulsive criminals."

"You ain't better."

He knelt before her, arms folded, finger still on the trigger. His shoulder length hair dripped water on her knees, "You can change, you know. You can choose the right path. It's never too late." His smile didn't touch his eyes.

"Really? You want me to go back to Hayward?"

"I have enough authority to vouch for you, to tell him that you changed. That you intend to serve him, to repay him for raising you, all these years."

She had to chuckle, "Raising me? You mean raising me to the roof so I could shoot down robbers who wanted his gold bars and diamonds? Enough horseshit."

"You'd rather be back at the countryside? Playing your dusty instruments around a petty fire? That it?"

"You seem to know an awful lot about me, which is odd and pointless, because you tried and are trying to kill me."

Remy Cain shook his head, laughing as he looked at her, adoration in his eyes, "The Viscount intended to turn you into one of his commanding men—or women. Along with Rosalie, you'd offer the female opinion we so acutely crave. I was to be your mentor, I'd even made you the ring, the silver with the Templar insignia. I'd show you an example, but it's deep in my pockets."

She stared at him, "You, my mentor? What makes you think that I would accept transitioning into an Order of greedy bastards?"

"If your judgement wasn't tampered by walking with these fools, you wouldn't hesitate to join. I know you, I've seen you and I've studied up on you."

He treated her like an experiment, it was revolting. She glared at him, trying to push him away with only her vision. She tried to move, but it was too painful and he had her under his boot, "Being with them made me realize the flaws of both organizations. The creation of you both is a jarring mistake. You're the unwanted denizens of our world, working underground to leech from it and control it and burn it to satiate your fetishes. On the other hand, the Assassins are a bunch of homicidal philosophers that benefit from organized crime. Neither of you are worthy of existence."

"Is that what you think? You think our war, spanning centuries before your ancestors, and your ancestors' ancestors, is pointless?"

"And stupid, and incredibly childish."

"Then be sure to tell Ashton Willis of your opinions, when you meet him. And when it's _my_ time to go, as well. You'll discover what would happen if someone were to die in hell."

He raised his gun, and May stared at the barrel. So, this is how it ends? There's no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the entire headquarters she viewed as her home is burned to the ground, and everyone was being manipulated by a sociopath on drugs. And finally, she will die by the weapon she held close to her most of her life. By a bullet, a tiny, soaring metal eagle that helped shape history and wrote her story from beginning to end.

But then, she heard a sound.

One she heard the first time she saw Jacob's green eyes.

Cain yelped, dropped the gun, and clawed at his back as if a humongous snake bit him there. He turned, and May saw a spike lodged between his shoulder blades, tied to a strong wire that wrapped around Cain as he tumbled and rolled about. The figure in black that was once motionless slid an inch towards Cain every time the burned man fidgeted. May watched numbly, unable to react. Her fingers touched something cold, odd, everything was burning hot in this fiery dome, she felt as if the object was her friend. She lifted the cold metal, and almost out of inborn instinct, pulled the trigger at Cain. Twice, Thrice. Until he fidgeted no more.

She peered warily over Cain's corpse, trying to see Jacob, notice him in the maze of her addled mind. His cheek was to the ground, and he was barely breathing. He was tethered to Cain by his gauntlet, and made no move to escape.

May grunted, wincing and moaning as she pushed off the ground. She pressed her hand to her shoulder, where it hurt the most, and blood coated her palm.

She stepped over Cain, and stumbled to her knees, crawling towards Jacob, ignoring the pain and the fire. She reached him, and with her forehead resting on his back, blindly pulled the gauntlet off his arm. Then she dragged him, crawling with him in tow, heading towards salvation, the door frame leading to a colder, more merciful hell. If it was the last thing she'll ever do, she will get him to safety, she will get him to safety.

And she got him to safety, dragging him away from the falling splinters. She laid on her back, unable to go on. She silently watched the fire devour the sky, watched as people died and killed and died. Then, she saw everything fade.

* * *

 **Things are heating up (excuse the pun), what do you think will happen next? :)**


	26. Chapter 26

All she saw was a light.

A golden, shimmering light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. The only thing that made her feel alive when all she thought about was death.

She contemplated going to it. Will the light kill me? She asked herself, or will it give me life?

She touched her shoulder. It no longer ached, it no longer bled. Her heart no longer beat. And she noticed with a start—she wasn't even breathing.

This is it, she thought, this is where I say goodbye to the world. And why is that so bad? She lived more years than some of those beggars on the streets, some orphaned children, some infants. Perhaps even more than her sister. Was it a sin to want more? Was it the pinnacle of greed to turn her back on the beckoning light?

She took one step forward, the light propelled forward, hurrying towards her in speed only light could achieve. In an instant, it was standing before her, _she_ was standing before her, in all her blinding, golden glory. Yara, the woman she promised.

Yara was crying, glistening tears dripping down her chin, she stared at May as if she was the reason for her imprisonment, and her death.

"Save me." Her lips quivered, she curled her armoured fingers into fists. The sound of gold grating against gold shuddered in May's ears. She winced.

"You're dead, Yara. Let go." May said.

"I'm not dead, I'm alive. I'm alive, and I'm dead in this prison."

"You're dead. You've been dead for thousands of years." May took a step back, eyes stinging, "You're dead."

"So are you."

May blinked, wincing as she stared into the light of the burning sun itself.

"I'm alive."

"No, you're dead. Let go." Yara came forward, seizing May by the neck. She began squeezing, her metal claws digging into May's flesh.

Maybelle wheezed, but she felt far too feeble to even protest, let alone raise a hand to pry Yara's hand off. Her eyes rolled back, drool touched her lips, cold and thin.

"If you're not alive, the die!" Yara slammed May into an invisible wall, choking her. May's eyes began to close, and no matter how hard she tried to keep them open, she failed.

"Why didn't you save me?! Why didn't you save me?!"

* * *

May opened her eyes, finding a white ceiling instead of the void blackness of her feverish dream. Her heart was beating loudly, thrumming against her ribs. She put a shuddering hand to it.

Someone came to view, a man. Her eyes were too blurry to judge, and the room spun endlessly, she swallowed back a gag.

"You're awake, welcome back to London," The man said, touching her forehead.

She cleared her throat, "Who… are you…"

"Woman, you hurt me. It's your ol' mate, Calvin!"

"Calvin? Oh…" The boy who tended to the bar, on the train… Wait…

"Where am I?" She closed her eyes to shut out a pounding headache.

"You're in Mr. Green's former shop, in Whitechapel. It was Jacob's idea. He found no place safe to lay low except this one."

Jacob, his name was a buzz to her entire body, she needed to see him, "Where is he now?"

"Green? Oh, he's in-"

"No, Calvin." She sighed, then felt a sudden pain at her shoulder, "Ow…"

"Oh… what is it, your shoulder?"

May opened her eyes and looked around, she was on a bed with a blue wool quilt covering her, two pillows were under her neck, _great_ , now she'll have a strained neck for at least a week. At the end of the room was an open door, leading to a wide room full of empty, dusty shelves.

Calvin leaned in closer, lifting her thin shirt and inspecting the wound, "We had to stitch this one up for ya, kept you under for quite a while since you kept screaming."

"I don't remember screaming."

"You had a fever, and you lost a lot of blood."

"From a shoulder wound?"

Calvin stared at her blankly, then realization hit him, "Oh, you think you have just the one? No, dove, you were stabbed in the back and took one other bullet in your arm."

"What?" She tried to push herself up from the bed, but something ached between her shoulder blades. Damn it, so close to her spine.

"Probably didn't feel it till after, can't say I blame ya. Jacob tells me it was a massacre."

Visions of that fiery night returned to Maybelle, as vividly as they occurred. Burning men bumping into each other, debris falling and crushing those who survived, blood seeping from places illogical, she didn't think she'd forget those sights.

"Did… did anyone survive?"

"Three Rooks, one is barely twenty. And you two." Calvin avoided her gaze, as if his eyes were teary and he didn't want her to see it. He probably knew men from that headquarters. After all, they followed their boss everywhere to defend him.

The whole headquarters, up in flames, with no survivors except five. _Will_ , you fucking monster, I'm going to kill you.

"Calvin, could you please get Jacob?" She felt her voice raising.

"Oh, yeah. He went to get some supplies. We're going to be here for a while, least, until he says it's enough."

May said nothing, instead, she imagined all the ways she could kill William. A while later, she heard Calvin asking her if she wants something to drink. Her mouth felt like a desert, but she couldn't find the strength to tell him. So, he left.

* * *

She slept dreamlessly until a familiar voice woke her.

"And that here is for Agnes, tell her to prepare half of it, we're trying to cut down."

"Did you bring ointment?"

"Yeah, can't forget with my leg burning like that."

"I'll take it from here, boss."

May fought to open her heavy eyes. The light coming from the windows had turned to a purple sunset. Immediately, she remembered the headquarters, and how she used to view sunsets as they glistened over the Thames. She sighed, when will this nightmare fade from her memory?

She turned to her side and pushed herself out of the bed, standing on her legs. Suddenly, blood escaped her head and she saw nothing but a tunnel, she felt cold, too cold. And her muscles were far too weak to even carry her to Jacob. But she had to see him, she had to see if he's alright. She had to see him to believe it.

She took the first step like a baby learning how to walk, then another, the wide room seemed so far away, yet it was right there. She hated feeling so weak, so defenceless. She never lost so much blood, never broke a bone because of how careful she was with heights. And now, she couldn't even walk straight.

She reached the doorframe. Agnes and Calvin were working in a tiny kitchen, whipping out pans and pots with dust and rat droppings stuck to them. To the right, Jacob sat at a desk and a library with few, colourless books, hunched over a tome and two maps.

May moved closer and touched his shoulder, he slightly jumped, leaving his thoughts and daydreams and looking at the intruder.

His right cheek was raw and taut against his face, from the smouldering wood where he laid half unconscious. His hair was snipped closer to his scalp, and he was wearing the darkest, deepest frown she's ever seen on him.

She couldn't find the words, couldn't form the questions. She lifted her hand and touched his chin, she wanted to know if he's real, wanted to know if she's still lost in that nightmare. His stubble was prickly, and he was warm from the long walk outside. And most importantly, the flush of life was in his skin, he's alive.

"I thought you died." She said.

"If I died, then who carried you here before you bled to death?" He smiled warmly, taking her hand and pressing it between his own. She thought he died, she thought she lost him.

"Jacob, I'm sorry."

"No, you haven't done anything."

"I didn't tell you about Will and what he'd done to me, I didn't tell you about the letter he slipped under our closet, I didn't tell you about the missions he made me do, or the things he made me take. I didn't tell you what kind of person he was behind the mask. I didn't tell you anything, it's all my fault." She pulled her hand away and tried to fight the tears.

"May, it's not your fault. Whatever you could've told me, it would just delay the inevitable. Will was planning this. I'm not stupid, May. He goes missing, along with his stuff from the headquarters and the train, and a Templar attack happens to take place? No, it's too obvious. It's just that I can't believe it."

"I understand he was your right-hand-man…"

"No, he was a lot more than that," at this point, he was saying the words to himself, "He was a friend when I needed one, and a foe when I was about to do something stupid. He was a student, yet he taught me things no one else could've taught me. He was a helper after Greenie, and a planner when I didn't know what to do. He was… more precious to me than you can imagine, in so many ways."

"I understand."

"No, May. You truly don't understand. I've taught him everything I know, then adored him like he's the only person in the world. And he was, to me, in that period where I was in London alone. You don't understand."

He was right, she didn't understand, "Maybe I don't understand betrayal, but I understand injustice, cruelty, mistreatment, imprisonment, loss, fear, exhaustion, and even loneliness," She put her hand on his shoulder, "I know pain, Jacob, I know how pain tastes like. You're not alone."

He looked at her, then his frown melted into deep sadness. She just wanted to embrace him, to tell him it's all alright, but they seemed so disconnected, so distant.

"We'll get through this, we got through worse, didn't we?"

"I'm not so sure about that." He said, sighing.

She shook her head, then took a seat on his plans and books. Her legs felt like jelly and she was sweating too much. Five minutes ago, she was feeling frozen to the bone.

Jacob eyed her warily, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"No, I shouldn't. And fifty-something Rooks shouldn't be in their graves. And a beautiful headquarters by the banks of the Thames should still be standing."

Jacob went silent, and watched her numbly.

"Since you put two and two together, did you also discover that your ex spymaster is behind everything. And I mean _everything_?"

"What do you mean?"

She told him.

Jacob stared at the wall of books throughout, as if trying to ignore the pure poison that's coming out of May's mouth. Even Calvin and Agnes stood in the doorframe in flour-covered aprons, listening, not trying to hide it.

When May was done spewing hatred and swears and oaths, Jacob stood from the chair and walked to an end table nestled against the wall, its texture somewhat blending with the mahogany of the shelves and paneling. He pulled out the altered map, turning it this way and that, as if trying to solve a riddle.

"Jacob."

He ignored her, and brought the map close to his face, he squinted, she barely saw the whites of his eyes.

"Jacob, that's enough. I've told you what I-"

Jacob threw the map away, it crashed somewhere behind him, barely cracked. He slammed his hands against the end table and stared at it, trying to contain an outburst.

"Everything we've been through, everyone who died along the way, and it was all for nothing? All of it? All we've suffered, and we're chasing after a dream?!"

Will's words came out of Jacob's mouth, this time bubbling with anger. He pushed the table with his knee, several books came tumbling down and landing by his feet. He closed his eyes, listening to the stunned silence.

"We were chasing after a dream, and now, we're chasing after a Templar," May said, "Or not, maybe not a Templar. Something much worse, something much more powerful, something you've never seen before," May stood and walked to him, then basked in his red fury unafraid, "Are you willing to let a monster like that get away with it? Let him be and watch as he destroys both the assassins and the Templars?"

Jacob said nothing.

"This is not our war alone, Jacob. Will is planning to take over both factions, and if you do nothing, no one will. Don't you care about London?"

"I do care, or else I wouldn't even be an assassin."

"Then forget the gauntlet, whether it exists or not, and set your sights on ending this madman."

He looked at her, pain wrinkling the corners of his eyes. Words won't come out of his mouth, but May knew what he was thinking.

"Look, I know what you feel… about him," May said, Jacob winced, and tried to look away, but she held his gaze, "I felt it, once, or maybe almost. But believe me, he's not worthy of anyone's love. And you need to remember that."

He nodded slowly.

"I need you to be ready, we're planning to kill two Templars. A woman I once considered a sister, and a man you once considered… yours."

* * *

The hatch to the roof was dangling there, swinging by a breeze coming from the open window. A simple guest room was behind May, containing a bare bed and a candlestick stuck to the ground.

Calvin was busy fetching coal for the fireplace. Agnes was asking about Bertha, after she put her in allied hands. May spent the entire week sleeping and listening to Jacob's mutterings when she was momentarily awake. She could raise her arms now, and could stand without needing a bucket next to the bed.

And now, she wanted to climb up to sit by Jacob. There was nothing else to do, no one else to talk to. And she never felt so useless in her entire life.

She pulled down the tiny ladder and climbed to the top.

The wind nearly blew her off the roof. It billowed in her shirt and made her coattails whip about. Jacob turned, sensing a presence like a hungry cat. He raised a brow and kept staring.

May scuffled to him, then looked at the height. It wasn't too much, two storeys and a flat roof that ended in a sloping edge. His legs rested against the slope. He looked right at home.

"It's windy." She said.

"You don't say?"

"What are you doing up here?"

He sighed. A sudden wind blew rippled through his short hair, "I'm just… thinking. It's too stuffy and dusty to think down there. It was great, once, maybe it isn't because there were no cobwebs. Maybe human presence made it feel more… welcoming."

May lowered herself next to him, drawing her legs close to her chest, "Reminiscing, are we?"

"Not really. It's just…" He looked at her, trying to find words, "If Evie was here, she would've known what to do. Or better yet, see it coming a mile away."

"Maybe you shouldn't praise your sister that much. She might be older, but you're just as great."

He smiled, "You don't know her. She's a pain in the side, that one, but I can't imagine a world without her in it."

"Yet she's not in London, but you managed to keep the city standing for at least seven years." She nudged him with her shoulder.

"I suppose not for long."

It had rained once that week, but May missed it. She watched the aftermath. The birch trees that lined the street across dripped water that glimmered momentarily as they fell. She watched as the ground reflected the glowing lanterns latched to the many carriages passing by. Wagons of badly-covered coal and some of freshly-manufactured soap, also covered with a loose tarp, some pieces had fell from the box at some point and began seeping lather on the street, filling the air with citrus and lavender.

They watched the sunset in silence, and watched as groups of people switched from laborer to pub-goers and prostitutes. When you're high off the ground, no one really looks up, no one knows you're staring. It's both empowering and uncomfortable.

"Have you ever…" Jacob broke the long silence, "thought about death?"

May scowled, "Yes, more times than I can count."

"I haven't, not really. Not thoroughly, at least. And now that someone who knows everything has turned on me, I find that…" He sighed, "That I'm not immortal. That I could die any moment. I never really thought about it. One bullet could end me, one stab, one push, just one. That's all it takes."

"What is this coming from?"

"I saw you die, May. I held you in my arms, stopping several wounds from bleeding, trying to stop a carriage and convince the driver to take a handful of bloody shillings. I almost lost hope, almost laid on the ground and watched helplessly… I couldn't-"

She touched his arm, "But I'm alive. That means you haven't lost hope."

"Yes, but-"

"I owe you my life, Jacob."

"No, you repaid me many times before."

"Perhaps, but I'm thankful. And I need to repay you for it."

Jacob raised a brow, then put a finger on his lips like a child thinking about Christmas toys, "Okay, I want three pints of bitter, a new brown coat. Hmm, let's see. Oh! I lost the vial of gun oil, I'd love some of that."

May smiled, "Done, anything else?"

"I want books on fighting, one jeweled knuckle, a carriage…"

May snickered, "I don't think I can afford that much."

Jacob chuckled, he looked at her, watching the wind blowing locks of hair from her face.

"I'm kidding. I don't want any of that. But you know what I really want?"

Jacob wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, he melted against her, with his head resting on her shoulder and his whole weight pressing against her body. Embracing Jacob, _really_ pressing close to him, was not like embracing Will, all fluttery heartbeat and tingly fingers. It was different, like sunshine breaching the clouds, a lone star in an empty sky, one drop of gold in an ocean of water. It felt like _hope_. Warmth. Glee. Startlingly tangible and beautifully overpowering. Both of them needed saving from falling out, and they found no one to cling to except each other.

His fingers dug into her back, "May..."

May held him closer, "I know, Jacob. I know."

He breathed in the smell of her hair, "I'm glad that you do."

Then he leaned back, and in one swoop, captured her lips in his.

* * *

 **Kind of fluffy, but you guys needed a breather before the shitstorm. :)**


	27. Chapter 27

As Jacob roasted mutton with rosemary and enough pepper to make her eyes sting, Maybelle flipped through the pages of his journal after gaining permission. She wanted to know everything there is about Will, and the closest person to him was Jacob.

Entries about his training, how much money he makes and how much he keeps for himself. Descriptions of Jacob's daily routine while they lived under the same roof. His favourite dinner recipe—Honey garlic beef—unsurprisingly.

But nothing that will lead them to him.

Nothing that could tell May where he could've gone.

Jacob sent Rooks to survey the area, to find even the slightest bit of evidence that he hasn't simply vanished. They came back empty handed.

May sighed and tried not to sleep. Her wrist hurt because it's been supporting her chin for the past two hours. Jacob refused her help, Agnes and Calvin were out to some headquarters. She was bored to the bones.

"What do you think we should do now?" She asked him loudly.

A ruckus of pots and utensils, "About what?" His voice was muffled as he tasted the sauces.

"What do you think? About Will."

She heard Jacob sigh. His back was to her, he was stirring a thick sauce with a wooden spoon.

"We wait. He obviously has the upper hand, since he knows so bloody much about all of us."

"We can't just sit here while he plans to have us killed in the most grotesque way possible!"

Jacob groaned and tossed the spoon inside the pot, he turned and walked to the narrow doorframe, "Listen, May. I know you'd like your revenge, but it's just not that easy. Even without details about everyone's sleeping habits, he's still dangerous. I know it because…" He paused, as if the words were too heavy to spew out, and they got stuck in his throat, "I know it because I'm the one who taught him. He knows my every move, every thought that crosses my mind."

"And you don't?" May yelled, ignoring the ache behind her eyelids.

"No, I don't. The student should never be stronger than the master, yet he surpassed me." Jacob turned away and pretended to watch over the food. He was too ashamed to even face Maybelle. Heart too drowned in fear and fury to look anyone in the eye.

She stood and took the journal with her, she walked to the nearest window overlooking the evening traffic and watched the nightfall. Whitechapel was lit by a full moon. A nimble bird flew overhead, practically a blur of white and grey. A hungry owl that just woke from its daylight slumber hooted. As it flew past, one of its small, thin feathers escaped its body and drifted to the windowsill. Maybelle looked at it and sighed.

Maybelle opened the journal again, she ended up finding an entry about a girl called Clara. A child-spy distinguishable by her long braids and sassiness, Maybelle giggled, "Who's this Clara you mention?"

Jacob popped his head out of the blistering oven, "Oh, she's… she was an accomplice, Evie and Greenie adored her, maybe they wanted to have a child like her, all courageous and dainty. She was barely a teenager when we worked with her, I suppose she's nineteen or twenty by now."

"Nineteen? You don't work with her anymore, do you?"

He took out the pan of baked, unpeeled potatoes and took a whiff of the starchy steam, "No, she's at Southwark, working at some old bloke's hat shop. Benjamin Beast's Best Bonnets. Gave up working with us, can't say I blame her, really. She got most of what she wanted from us." He ladled the potatoes onto a large dish. "We helped her free her friends from Starrick's harsh labour, but then after Starrick died and his factories crumbled, we began explaining to her how crucial money is to some children. Several acts were passed, really, way before Starrick built his workplaces from hell. Doesn't mean he followed them, but…"

He checked the mutton and moved the pan to the centre with a rag. "We managed to convince her that working for nine hours a day might be slightly better than a workhouse, that those children might actually want to work to support their families, no matter what kind of work. She eventually accepted the idea and began to work herself."

"So, that's it? She's just… working? You don't have a connection with her? She no longer works for you?"

"I asked her for some intel a year ago, kid's talented. But she's better off doing less threatening jobs."

Maybelle looked at the scribbled name, Clara O'Dea. Child-spy. One of Jacob's ex-allies, perfectly gifted in the art of intel acquisition. Someone that talented wouldn't lose their ability after a couple years of idleness. Southwark. Hat maker.

Would she be willing to help her with the William case?

"Jacob. Say I wanted her to do something for me, you know, want her to fetch me info about a couple of bastards. Would she be willing?"

Jacob put the rag on the stovetop, he narrowed his eyes, "What're you planning, kitten?"

"Nothing, I'm just… going to ask her about Myra."

"Myra? Your sister? How would she gather info about someone across the kingdom?"

Maybelle grimaced, "I don't know, maybe she has folks somewhere. Maybe back in Nottingham."

Jacob exhaled, then left the kitchen to stand before her. He held her hands above the journal, "May, your sister is… She could be alive, but it's unlikely you'll ever find her."

"Why do you say that? Why can't she be tracked down like any other person?"

"Because all the men we tracked down were Templar members, highly predictable to us after centuries of study, and all roaming in London or its outskirts. Your sister… she might be anywhere in the world. She might've fled Nottingham or ran off with someone you never knew about. A friend, or a lover."

She shook her head, "Myra never had lovers, and most of her friends were teenagers her age who had a steady but shallow relationship with. There's no way she trusted them to take her elsewhere. Ever since her own father turned out to be a twat, she had difficulty trusting others. Including me and mother."

Jacob's brows furrowed, "Do you have any idea why she fled?"

"Because she was finally free of both mum and dad? She found the opportunity to leave the favoured, despicable sibling to the cold of Nottingham and go wherever she wants. She might've gone to the country to pursue a simpler life, or… I don't know. Maybe your theory about a lover is true."

Jacob rubbed her knuckles, "Have you ever considered something else entirely? Perhaps she fled something she'd done. The main reason for someone to skip town is a felony."

Maybelle gulped, "What are you… what are you saying? Are you saying that she…?"

"That she shot your father dead? Yes, I am saying that."

Maybelle refused to blink, her eyes became blurry, "No, no. You don't know Myra. She would never do something like that."

"She loved your mother, she loved her too much. She was jealous when her own sibling got more attention than her. She loved her far too much."

"No, she hated her." Maybelle pulled away her hands, "Hating me was natural. I would hate her if I wasn't the trophy child."

"No, it's never natural for a sibling to hate the other except for jealousy. I always quarreled with Evie, but it had nothing to do with me being jealous of father's love to her, because I was not jealous of the endless, insufferable lessons Evie took. As I grew, I understood why father loved her better, but I was never furious about it. I never, and would never, hate Evie."

"But… that's impossible. Father shot himself, they found a hole in his head, the right side, and he was right handed."

He shrugged, "So was Myra. She made it look like an accident. But Myra killed him after he murdered someone she couldn't live without. Someone she revered so much yet never got a chance to tell her so. It makes sense Myra did this favour to your mother—kill the man who murdered her."

Maybelle shook her head lightly. When she blinked, a tear fell on the journal. She snapped and leapt out Jacob's way, "No, you're wrong about her. You're wrong about everything. If you were so endowed at solving mysteries, why didn't you find out William is a maniac who's planning to betray you for the last ten years? I'm going to find out and you're not stopping me." She turned and began climbing to the tiny guestroom, "And the mutton's burning!"

* * *

Inside Benjamin Beast's Best Bonnets, the smell of felt and fresh leather was an overpowering warmth that only accentuated the blazing fire inside the closed fireplace. The sounds of needlework by large machinery and arm-length scissors came from an open room behind the counter, displaying a tiny glimpse of workers slowly pressing wool into felt. Maybelle found herself turning in circles to appreciate the towers of hung hats and bonnets waiting for a buyer. She studied the intricacies of a green ladies' hat, oblong and decorated with feathers from a peacock and fake sewn roses. On a shelf near the counter was the shop's creations of gentlemen's hats. Not many, but well-done. Middle-class women always visited such shops instead of ordering specially-made hats. May did neither.

She walked to the counter, stepping over a bolt of fabric that had fallen from a nearby stand. She knocked on the wood, a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes with dark halos framing them appeared.

"Welcome to Benjamin's Bonnets, may I help you? You look like you need a hat, not a pretty feeling having to walk London with rain down yer neck and coal in yer scalp. Can I find you something to protect your pretty hair?" He grinned, several teeth were missing.

"No, thank you. I'd like to see Clara, please. Tell her it's a friend."

"Clara? The O'Dea lassie? She works here, alright. But she's on her shift."

"It's urgent, please. Just five minutes."

The man shook his head, but called, "Clara, someone's here to see ya!" Then he disappeared to continue his work.

A brunette with a beige bonnet appeared, wiping her wet hands on her apron. When she approached, Maybelle noticed her small eyes was the same colour as her hair. She put her shaking hands on the counter and tried to remember this visitor.

"You don't really know me, but I work for the assassins. Well… work is a very loose term, I'm more of a… an ally."

The girl grinned, "Jacob? Tell him I miss Lady Frye and Mister Green, I wish I could see what they're doing!" She removed her bonnet with red-tipped fingers, revealing slightly thinning hair.

"I'll… tell him you said hello."

"Would you, um… tell me why you're here?" She looked around and lowered her voice, "I stopped working with the assassins a long time ago. I don't want to go through their rules again."

"Oh, no. I'm not here for—"

"Because I currently thoroughly despise anything to do with rules. Old man back there keeps telling me to work extra shifts because he can't sleep. Wakes up a second after sleeping because he 'heard a really loud noise'." She scoffed, "Repairmen say there ain't nothing wrong with his flat, ratcatchers say there ain't no rats. He's going insane. Maybe he'll let me inherit his shop, he disowned his children, after all."

"Clara, would you be—"

"No! I said I won't work with the assassins again!"

She touched Clara's shoulder, "I didn't say you will! I'm here on my own business!" She looked at the girl who was shivering, "Are you cold? Need a coat or something? I can take one from a Rook headquarters. I'll see if they'll let me."

"No… I'm… I'm not cold. Doctors say it's permanent, after… you know, working here for a while tends to do this to you."

Maybelle blinked, "Do what?"

"Something about a chemical we use for the fur, they said it's the fate of anyone who becomes a hatter. But the job was right there. Benjamin might be a cock, but he pays well and isn't too much of an issue to learn from. He knows how to make hats, been in the business for twenty years or more. I just wish I could take over!"

"I'm… sorry about your condition."

Clara shrugged, "Comes with dedication. What did you want?"

"Um, well. There's an issue I have. I need to find someone and I heard you have a gift about that. I need you to find a man who—"

"Stop right there." She wiped fresh sweat from her forehead, "The ways I used to get dirt on people is no longer with me. I used to be a kid playing with orphans, little children nobody notices in a crowd—easy to make a fortune out of secret societies just by listening and being yourself. But I said it isn't with me no more. I'm twenty and all the friends I had either died, returned to the factories, or ended up as servants to obese men who has foreign sausages and ten-pound wines for every meal. They can no longer help me, and thus I can no longer help you or Jacob."

"There's… nothing you could do?"

Clara smiled, "No, unless you want a nice hat." She pulled a black funeral hat with a veil from a nearby stand, and put it on Maybelle's head. Clara pulled the veil down and snickered.

May sighed, "Look, I just want you to tell me about William Franczak, Jacob's spymaster after Mister Green left London. You know him?"

The girl narrowed her eyes, "Can't say I have… Oh, wait! Is he the tall fellow wearing the white women's coat?"

May sniggered, "That's the one!"

"No, sorry," but then, Clara raised a finger, then looked around, "I heard one thing about the Templars, though. Might help you and Jacob, yeah?"

May leaned in closer, Clara paused, suspicious, as if the many columns of hats had ears, "After Starrick, some other Grandmaster rose from the ashes of the London Templars, I've been hearing that his henchmen have been dropping dead all over London. Now, I don't know if that's Jacob's doing, but it better be, because I've never seen Jacob work so fast alone. Was it you?"

May eyed the young woman dumbfoundedly, "What are you talking about?"

"The other Grandmaster, did you kill him?"

May felt sweat gather on her neck, "H-Hayward Willis?"

"The one! Did you? Can you tell me how?"

"When?"

Clara blinked, "Huh?"

"When did you hear about this?"

"Just last week. I knew this fellow's name and I heard from a hatless man about Viscount Willis' demise."

May could barely swallow, her mouth felt too dry, "And what about his daughter? Rosalie Willis?"

Clara shook her head, "Never heard of her, sorry."

"Clara!" The shop owner called.

"Alright, already!" She turned to May and removed the funeral hat from her head and put it on the table, "Still want the hat?"

"I don't think I'll be needing a hat. I never wore one, really. Maybe once or twice when I had to walk around in Hyde, but—"

"You walked in Hyde? Who's your father?!"

"Oh, a… he was… a hunter. Not from around here. He's not rich, if that's your question."

"Oh O'dea! Your break's up, lass!" Benjamin called, snipping extra fabric from a brown hat he worked on.

The young brunette almost turned her back and left, but May stopped her by the wrist, "Wait."

Clara exhaled, "What is it now?"

"Are you… alright, working here, I mean? If you could just… settle down somewhere and stop working, would you seize the opportunity?"

"You're not trying to marry me off to some relative of yours, huh?"

"No, no. I… could help you earn enough to find you a good flat, or maybe even move out of London."

Clara looked back at the workshop's doorway, then leaned in closer to May, "I'm listening."

May breathed in a mouthful of dye-tainted air, "I've been selfish for too long, I ate bacon for breakfast, and roast beef for dinner. I bought so much bitter candy, and bought so many coats of the same colour. Sure, they were all second-hand, but still. Some people are stuck in a canvas wrapping, for goodness' sake. I've been taught to appreciate what I have by a certain fellow, and I've been taught to give by a certain family…"

Clara listened, still sceptical.

May licked her lips and pulled the leather string from her neck, the pearl hanging by it smelled like her, and even made a faint red imprint between her collarbones that refused to go away. She knew the size of the sphere, the exact colour, the weight. She placed it in front of Clara, naked to her wide eyes.

Clara looked at the older woman, "What… what is this?"

"I know, it's beautiful. It's a pearl."

Clara parted her pale lips and picked up the small object, she rolled it between her fingers, awestruck.

"This pearl has been with me for as long as I can remember, but it's time I let it go. This pearl made me lose a father, and a sister, maybe even a mother."

"Is it cursed?"

May snorted, "No, it's just a thing. But it's been indirectly causing me trouble ever since I got it," May closed Clara's hand around the pearl, "It needs a new owner. You can sell it for a fortune, or keep it for luck or misfortune, who knows. But remember, it's more than just a trinket. You can sell it for at least a thousand."

"A thousand?!"

"Or even more, I don't know how the rates are now, but it'll get you out of this place, it could stop… this…" May nodded at Clara's shaking fists.

Clara's bit her lip, she raised her closed fist to her narrowed eyes, "I'm not used to handouts… but, how can I thank you?"

"You've already thanked me by relieving me of the memories linked to this pearl. And that's more than enough." May smiled, then turned to leave before Clara could say another word.

"Say hello to Jacob for me, will ya?!" Clara called.

"I will."

* * *

As May looked for a hansom to take her back to Whitechapel, thick fog began to descend on London. The first in that winter. She didn't mind the cover, because she was sure someone was watching her from the roofs. Whether it was one of Jacob's or Will's men, it made no difference, it made her feel like a target.

The evening cold began to seep into her clothes. Her stomach grumbled, as she missed dinner and was still recovering. The burns on her hands glowed whenever a strong wind caressed the tender skin. But the trip was worth it. She didn't find out where Will is lurking, but she did discover Hayward is dead. Killed by Will or Rosalie, since Jacob would tell her if he killed the Grandmaster. Because according to the assassins, killing the Grandmaster is the fastest way to usher the area into a period of assassin-ruled peace. But that isn't true, the danger is still here, and as strong as ever.

If her idiot of an uncle was the only threat that faces London, she would've ended that threat herself, many months ago.

She wrapped her coat tighter around her.

Someone's silhouette appeared in the swirling fog, standing across the road, unmoving.

Then two other silhouettes stepped forward, staring at her like the first one.

May shuffled her feet, drawing her short sleeves closer to her wrists. Are they simple pedestrians, or... more?

Two minutes paused, the figures never moved.

It was far too much to bask in their unholy shadow.

Maybelle hurried away, taking a random turn into another street, still inhibited, but far less than the main road. She looked back, nothing was behind her, but she still felt an urge to escape Southwark as fast as possible. She waved at an incoming carriage, but it didn't seem to notice her. It passed by, behind it another carriage, then another. The fog was too thick, she felt she would be lost inside it forever.

She walked on, then blindly took a right into a quiet, empty street. Just when she turned to run towards a more populated area, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and one around her arm.

She grunted and felt inside her coat for her revolver. Someone grabbed her wrist and brought it behind her back, she stomped around, wanting to crush one of their feet. Her assailants were quiet, unlike the four Rooks who captured her and sent her to Jacob, so long ago.

She fired into the pale cloud, one of them groaned, a younger man with stubble, but he didn't seem to suffer much damage. Five shots, three men, make them count, Maybelle.

The man behind her closed her mouth, and the one in front of her brought up a canvas bag that could fit around her head. She squirmed, and fired at the man behind her, then when he let her go, kicked at his abdomen and fired again. The blonde man fell, she turned and faced his friends, unsure how many, unsure how well armed.

She felt a movement to her left, she stepped back and fired. She heard him suddenly yelp, then run away from May as if she had a grenade in her hand.

She turned to the last man, one with a beard and pale-coloured eyes. She raised her gun at him. She didn't know if they were in the middle of the road, she didn't know if someone was watching her. The man gulped and raised his hands as he looked at his fallen mate.

May brushed blood off her nose, "Who sent you?"

"I don't… I can't…"

"On your knees, now!"

The man complied, shaking like a leaf. He pulled at his bright blue scarf and looked up at her.

"If you want to live, you're going to tell me who sent you."

"I can't do that, ma'am, I respect my customers' secrets."

He's a hired gun? "If you want to stay breathing, you'd tell me who hired you. I have two shots left, if the first bullet doesn't kill you, the second will. Speak!"

"Alright! Alright!" He gulped audibly, "All I know is, he lives in Westminster, in this nice home. Gave us a pretty sum to get you to him, but not to kill you. I tell you, I've never kidnapped someone, too grotesque, but he gave us what all three of us make in a year."

"What's his name?"

"Don't know, he never said."

"You're lying, tell me his name!"

"He never said it! He just said… bring her to me unscathed, because she won't come herself unless she wants to kill me!"

May chewed her lip and looked at the shivering man, "Alright, you're free to leave. But don't let me catch you chasing me again, not you, or any of your friends. Or else you're deader than dead, you hear?"

"Yes, I hear you!" He shuffled to his feet and cut through the fog, and then disappeared.

* * *

Westminster refused to quiet down, even in a rare thick fog and a dark midnight.

Jacob's probably looking for her at this point, worried that she might've been slain or captured or threatened, or maybe she betrayed him and joined Will in his plan.

After all, she was wronged by the Templars, and suffered through the betrayals of the assassins.

But no—she was alright. Low on ammo, hungry, and tired. But alright.

The gate to the Willis estate was open, the garden inside was overgrown, weeds took over and rust began gathering on the tools that someone planted into the dirt, the ground was spread with crunchy leaves and bits of stone, and the entire place looked lonely and abandoned. Not even a lamp lit her way down the path towards the large doors. And no orange glow appeared behind a set of silk curtains.

It was depressing and unsettling, to see the building in this state. She didn't particularly like this place, but it was home. She knew every secret nook, knew shortcuts, knew where the maids stash desert meant for feasts. She knew how it looked from up above, a hub for a dozen maids and gardeners, surrounded by a garden of all colours, and metal benches and shiny sculptures. And fallen branches and fruit-bearing trees.

It's home, she hated it, but it's home.

She arrived at the front door, and turned the knob.

Inside, there were no sounds, no heat, no light, but a heavy sense of abandonment. As if she just walked into an ancient temple. Even the air smelled like dust instead of daffodils and incense.

She took out her revolver and tip-toed up the stairs. Two bullets are more than enough, if what she believed is true. Will would be too careful, Rosalie wasn't a man, Stocker wasn't in her crosshairs. And Will wouldn't send just about anyone on this job.

This only leaves one suspect.

She opened the door to her uncle's office, and raised her gun at the man sitting in Hayward's desk. He seemed right at home, surrounded by books and letters and shiny weapons _just_ out of his reach. He was wearing black from head to toe. He calmly stared at her, as if he knew she won't shoot him. Because they were family, they were sister and brother, and no matter what happened, they were friends.

"Hello, Maybelle."

"Hello… Glen."

* * *

 **Thank you for everyone who reviewed the last two chapters!**

 **Clara has Mad Hatter's disease, and her boss has Explosive Head syndrome (yeah, they both exist). She ended up there because London is merciless and doesn't forgive mistakes. When Clara was young, she didn't seem to understand that she (and the other orphans) had to work to survive, instead deciding to 'liberate' them. And when she finally found out the truth, it was too late, so she got into any trade no matter the cost. That's Victorian London for you, the game didn't do this dark side of it any justice, instead clinging to the happy-go-lucky vibe that was so unlike that period in history. Which is why I wanted to write the gritty truth in the first place.**


	28. Chapter 28

Glen was silent as he poured himself a whisky from one of Hayward's gleaming crystal decanters. They seem like the only clean thing in the entire estate. He poured May a glass as well, even though he knew she never drinks. Maybe out of courtesy? Or was he hoping she'd actually down the horrid stinging mixture, and he could get on with whatever he has to say without getting his head chopped off?

He sipped, staring at her over his glass. Neither decided to break the ice for quite a while. May was simmering with creative ideas to murder a backstabber, and Glen's eyes were serious as he tried to read her mind.

"Why have you lured me here? Is someone hiding under the desk and you brought me here to be killed?" She said.

He put down his glass and had a brief look of pain cross his features, "No, far from it, in fact."

"Then, are you trying to apologize?"

He cowered and guiltily avoided her gaze. It happened a long time ago, it didn't matter anymore, but the betrayal still stung. Because it was coming from one of the very few people she could count on.

"I'm sorry for ratting you out, but I couldn't just sit there while Hayward dangled everything I ever wanted in front of my face."

She reluctantly ignored that, "Speaking of the old devil, I hear he's dead?"

Glen nodded his head, just as indifferent to the news as May is. No one liked that crook. His employees hated his dictatorship, and his guests were sycophants and liars who saw an opportunity in such a lonely, broken man.

"Who did it?" She asked, itching to know.

Glen's mood seemed to sour, he looked like he was about to have a huge shit, "That's actually what I lead you here for."

May listened, unsure of what to even ask him.

"I've been planning to do this for a while, planning to rid myself of this guilt I've been going through."

May rolled her eyes, "It doesn't matter anymore, Glen." She was pissed, but it didn't matter, she had enough on her plate.

"No, it's not about that." He suddenly broke into a sweat, he wiped his forehead with the back of a black glove. If the room was dark, no one would suspect he was there…

"Where have you been, Glen?"

"Could you just stop asking and listen?!" He snapped, something she seldom saw him doing. He changed, just as she did. But he didn't expect otherwise. What's been bothering him? Polish fools with psychopathic tendencies?

"I need to bloody get out of this group of cutthroats. It felt right for a while, since it made me enough money to actually see myself walking out of the workhouse with my family by my side, but I can't take it. I can't."

Oh lord, she was trying to distract herself, to shake off this anger bubbling deep inside her. But she was actually right. What are the odds? Well, pretty great, considering Will posed as a Templar as well, and Glen was in the service of the Grandmaster.

"Are you working with Franczak?" She asked, hearing his name hadn't surprised him, but rather comforted him that he doesn't need to explain everything.

He nodded, "Yes, and I want it to be over."

"That bad?" Poor Glen, he doesn't know the majority of it, but she left him in his ignorance.

"Yes, he works us all day and night, and he scares me, well, not me, everyone. No one can look him in the eye. He pays well, so no one questions him."

"Whose he working with?"

"Mercenaries and previous connections, and, listen to this—"

She leaned in closer, he looked so aged in the sharp lighting of the three tall candles. He doesn't seem like the same innocent, giggling boy who only cared about getting drunk and smoking opium. A few months working for Will did that to him, how in the world did she last that long, then?

"You know whose working with him? Rosalie. That's right, he convinced her to kill her own father. Yet I'm not sure if she didn't want to do it a long time ago. They made off with his gold and money and bought themselves an army of crooked muscles. She's obviously the heir to the rest of his fortune, as well, since she's the sole survivor that carries his blood, and he would've left everything to her in his will, anyway."

May felt like she should be surprised, but she strangely wasn't. After all, Jacob did tell her how Rosalie wanted to kill Hayward more than Jacob and May wanted to combined. But that didn't explain why she ran off with Will instead of taking her massive fortune and doing whatever she wants with it.

No, May knew better. Will had her cousin in his webs, that sleazy, sociopathic spider. It's not his first victim, definitely not the last—not unless someone does something to stop him.

"So, they're working together to end two factions. Anything else I should know?"

"They're holed up at Hayward's Buckinghamshire country estate..."

Maybelle tilted her head, "What? Didn't he sell it after the depression?"

"No, you heard wrong. It's his, and so, hers. She's been holed up there for quite a while. And then William joined her, they've sent many mercenaries to London, so sort out any mess that might pop up. Which explains…" He pointed to himself, "They wanted me to take care of the paperwork and guiding the other men. Rosalie trusts me, she trusts me." He snorted, looking both sorry and amused.

"And you want to work with us, now?"

He nodded.

"I'm not sure if I can trust you. You've not been exactly… loyal, you could be just another ridiculous trap Will has set up."

Glen sighed, as if he knew he'd hear something like that, "You probably can't trust me, but I'm your only choice. If you're not sure about the information I just gave you, send someone to investigate, I'm sure they'll find forty-eight Banshees protecting Will and Rosalie."

"Banshees?"

"Just what Rosalie decided to call her little group of murderers."

May rolled her eyes, "Listen, if you want to join us, we're going to have to put up with you until we are sure you're telling the truth. That means no weapons, no strange outings at midnight, and Jacob will probably be breathing down your neck for at least two weeks." She said, "But with that said, I'm sure he'll appreciate the help, because…" She didn't want to say it, the phantom was never weak, but his aura has waned in the face of the devil, "Because I don't think he can do this alone, he has no one, all his spies belonged to William. All his Rooks are no match for someone who knows everything about them. And I'm… well, I'm not that much of a help. If no one helps him, London won't be the same for much longer."

Glen smiled, "What happened to you, May?"

She paused, what was he talking about? The scars on her face? The way she walked, like an injured penguin? "The same thing that happened to you, my boy- London."

He chuckled, "No, you're caring about someone else's wellbeing. That's new."

She smirked, "Oh, shut your gob."

Glen sighed, he gave her a onceover, "I've missed you, May," he kept those big eyes on her, it was both flattering and uncomfortable, "I hope you'll forgive me, someday," he stood and downed the last of his whisky, wincing as it traveled towards his stomach, "But for now, we have work to do. And things to discuss."

May pictured William's head on a pike, "We sure do."

* * *

Jacob's obnoxious slurping of his tea shuddered in May's ears. Glen stared across of him, hands tightly folded. The tacky piece of cloth spread to hide the table's marks and dust scratched against his skin, he shifted uneasily.

Jacob continued slurping as his narrowed eyes assessed Glen from head to toe.

May's eye twitched, this has been going for the past thirty minutes. Jacob drinks tea at a snail's pace, glares at Glen, and pours himself another cup. Rinse and Repeat.

He lowered his teacup to breathe, then put it to his lips and continued…

"Jacob, would you mind not doing that?" May said.

"That's how I drink my tea," He said, barely looking at her.

"No, it's not. I've seen you drink it before. This odd act you're putting on won't intimidate anybody. It might be creepy, but it's not effective."

Jacob raised a brow at her, he put down his teacup, almost cracking the china and spilling mint tea onto the saucer, "Don't interrupt me while I'm working."

Okay, she had it, "What's your problem, Jacob? Is it because I stayed out late? It's alright, mother, I'm home. I'm safe."

"No, it's not about staying out late… well, it might be, since you might be revealing our hideout…" he said through his teeth, "But no, it's about bringing a Templar to us, exposing most of our plans, and then asking me to trust him."

Glen raised a finger and opened his mouth, but Jacob silenced him by slamming his fist on the table. The china bounced and clanked. May's own teacup spilled a boiling trickle on her lap. She yelped and stood.

"Jacob, you're being rude. I know this man, I ate and fought with him. Sure, maybe we had a few… complications. But he's a good lad."

"First of all, I'm not rude," He kept his gaze on Glen, "Also, the one who betrays will find reason to betray again. I know it. And you won't convince me to trust him."

"Alright, maybe…" Glen stood.

"Sit down, son. I didn't ask you to for a performance."

"No, but you need one. I can tell you things you don't know about William."

Jacob smiled, "Trust me, if there's anyone who knows everything about William, it's-"

"No one," Glen finished for him, "Not even William knows enough about William. But we can share knowledge."

"Oh! So you can go back to your darling superior and tell him what weak spots I know of him? I don't think so."

Jacob leaned back in his seat. May fanned the scalding liquid on her lap. Glen clenched his teeth in frustration.

"You have no clue who or what that man is, face it, old man." Glen said.

"Old man?" Jacob chuckled, then touched his hairline, "I might be going a bit grey, but I'm not that old. Maybe you're just young," he said, "As for what he is, he's a traitor, that's what matters."

"No, you don't seem to grasp what you need to do," Glen leaned in closer to Jacob's deriding gaze, "You can't use your stab and run technique on him. Not only because, like you, he has an assassin blade on his wrist, and will predict you easily, but also because it's pointless to even attempt such a ridiculous method. You need to plan your movements."

"And you can't outsmart him. You can't outsmart what you don't understand." May added, walking to the table and taking a seat again.

Jacob looked between them, then licked his lips, "So, what do you suppose we should do, then? Poison his wine?"

"He'll smell it," May said.

"Turn his own men against him?"

"He's paying them a fortune, and they're mercenaries, old man. You know, they kill for someone if he fills their pockets?" Glen smirked.

"If you keep calling me that, I'll fill your pockets with lead, and you know where I'll toss you. I'll give you a clue—it's nearby."

"Stop fighting like a pair of crones, will ya?" May said, then sighed.

She remembered every little tender moment Will showed her to maintain a false sense of hope in her heart. Hope that he's not what she thought he was. Hope that she can tame him. She was so stupid for believing so. But as she discovered, she wasn't the only one he outsmarted.

Jacob thought Will was his friend and student. Hayward thought he was his ally. Glen thought he was his fair master. And she thought he was a chance at a special kind of warmth. Even Clara refused to mention him, May wondered what he did to the poor young woman.

He was violent, then gentle, then neglecting. And was loyal, then furious, then vengeful. He was just, then foreboding. Glen haven't told her what Will really did to him, but he didn't seem to want to.

She said nothing. Jacob stared at her as if he was reading through a boring book. Then he turned to Glen, who had moved back to his seat and had his fingertips against his forehead.

"Alright, I'll buy into your rubbish for her sake. But if you double-cross me, I'll cut you down faster than Will ever could," he said, "Actually, if you betray me, you'll have nowhere else to go, anyway. Be my guest. Surviving out there is way harder than your green arse thinks."

Glen nodded indifferently. May knew Glen had it with threats, whether they were empty or full. Before Will, there was Stocker-Take a steady aim at that target, son, or I'll break your elbow so you'll never be able to lift a mug to your lips.

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind," Glen said blandly, then he stood, "Now, I've found the layout of the Summer estate in Hayward's office, as well as other important papers. You know… after sorting through piles of love letters and receipts for tummy belts and cheap shoes."

Glen shoved a hand inside his coat, searched with his tongue poking out, then took out three folded papers. He unfolded the papers and smoothed them out on the table. The largest one was the estate's plan, drawn in ink on aged paper and labeled with numbers, directions, and notes for the furniture. It had thirty-eight rooms, a cellar, an attic, stables, a humongous garden, and several orchards.

Jacob looked at Glen, "Alright, what can you tell us about it?"

"It's absolutely massive, much larger that his estate in Mayfair. Definitely a fortress if one had enough men to guard it. She had hired more mercenaries recently and she has at least forty-eight men, but probably more since I've left. She sends some on errands, and some of them are in London, but the rest guard the estate. The men work two shifts. Four at dawn and four in the afternoon. There's about thirty minutes of disturbance while the shifts are cycled. You can take advantage of that. Yes?"

Jacob leaned in further, his chest was pressing against the table, "Can you show me the positions?" Jacob said.

Glen nodded, he pointed at each, "Eighteen men, give or take, who guard the estate from their nests. Sturdy, expensive rifles in their hands, possessing various years of experience in shooting, hand-to-hand, and the general brightness Rosalie lacks. It seems enough money can buy everything, even another head to think for her."

Jacob squinted at the paper, took it, then placed it on the desk. He stared at the map solemnly, fingers spreading onto the sketch of the dining room and the smallest library, "We need a plan. There's not much we could do when we're facing a sniper's nest."

Glen shrugged, "You could hide in the trees. There is a forest of orange trees to the back as well as the front. I must admit, the estate is not the best place for snipers to camp."

"Yeah, well, you'd be surprised what else Rosalie gets wrong." Maybelle said. She might've liked her cousin once, but now, she was just a petty, annoying obstacle that is only wasting her time. Like an angry, juvenile snake that wouldn't move. Compared to the other Templars Maybelle faced, Rosalie was a ridiculous pretender whose been given a lot of money. And thus, a lot of power.

"Hide in the trees…" Jacob mused, "I'll have to think about that."

"Or!" Glen suddenly said, he looked both agitated and excited, "I have another plan. A method Rosalie herself used. And I think you've been the victim, unfortunately." He ignored the glares and continued, "We could flood the estate with gas the same way Cain did at Copper's Bookkeeping."

The memory flooded Maybelle's system. Jude, his neck bent at an awkward angle, his lifeless eyes staring at the blazing ceiling, cinders falling like rain to scorch his face and melt his clothes. Jacob almost giving up after he remembered a ghost. And the bleak realization of the end. Maybelle experienced that incident many times, once with her body, thrice with her mind, and every day when she's asleep.

Jacob thought for a moment, then shook his head, "No, too dangerous. Who could possibly expose the pipes or rip out the lights and get out in time, without being discovered?"

Glen puffed, then shrugged, "She doesn't know that I betrayed them, maybe I'm a good candidate."

"No, you'll get yourself killed. We almost burned to death while trying to escape Copper's." Jacob said.

"Yes, well. You were the target. The time you took to escape only proves how effective this is."

"We're not doing that, that's the end of it, lad."

His fists clenched as much as his jaw, "What in the hell do you think we should do instead?"

"We'll do it the hard way. I'll gather my best snipers and combatants and brief them. Then we'll zig-zag to Buckingham so we don't draw attention. We'll position everyone in the thirty-minutes you spoke of. And when the snipers start the new shift, we'll attack."

"Oh, yeah, that could work. Unless one of them spots one of your snipers behind a tree and takes a wild guess on what's about to happen." May said.

"If that happens… we'll commence the assault."

"What if the Rooks aren't in position yet?" She asked.

"Then we'll get into position!"

"Do you honestly think that's a good plan?"

Jacob stared at her, lips pressed, shrinking under her gaze, his hesitant body language meant he heard that before, "Well, since you seem to know everything, why don't suggest a plan?"

She said nothing.

"I thought as much." He said.

Jacob's brows furrowed, his lips parted as if he wanted to air out another not-so-brilliant plan, but then he shrugged, "Fine then. I'll go ahead and assume my plan is the one we considered. When you do feel like talking, tell me."

And then Jacob left to do something upstairs. Or nothing. Probably nothing. Since all his plans and work was on his desk, downstairs.

* * *

An hour later, Jacob climbed down and sluggishly walked to the large bedroom. It wasn't even midnight yet. But Maybelle was grateful for his early retreat—more time to spend with Glen.

The pair sat next to each other by the table while drinking hot cocoa. Calvin came some thirty minutes ago with food and water. He then walked around the kitchen, picking up bottles leftover alcohol, mixing the liquids, and pouring the resulting shit-mix into a tumbler. Maybelle cracked her knuckles and stared ahead at the cracked paint covering the thin walls.

"Tell me about the estate while I was gone."

Glen was sipping on chili cocoa, courtesy of Agnes who came out from her friend's house to cook them dinner and bring them spices and sweets, bless her. But May's appetite was lost once she began to think about her plan.

He licked his faint chocolate moustache away, "There was an uproar, more or less. Hayward vowed to find you and take your head for himself, stuff it in a cabinet somewhere. Stocker tried to reassure him, at first, because at some point he looked at the brink of a heart attack. Shallow breathing and red-cheeked, doubling over and spitting. But then Stocker began to look for you."

"I guess he found me, but I only saw him once when I was in the area, and he didn't seem to care much about finally finding me. Maybe he gave up or thought I was too much trouble," she said, then scowled as she remembered Rosalie killed Hayward, along with _all_ of his men who refused to work for her.

"Is he… still alive? Stocker, I mean."

Glen's eyebrows knitted, "He never joined Rosalie. But I don't know what became of him. He wasn't at Hayward's side when we… when they ordered us to…"

"Do you think he fled? Where would he go?"

"I don't know…"

The ex-squad-members shared a look of understanding. Stocker was the only sliver of sunlight that breached Hayward's midnight woods. He might've been a hardy teacher who expected nothing but the best, but it was his job. And his determination was the reason why Hayward's squad was one of the best. Before an Assassin came and wrecked everything and sent everyone scurrying in different directions.

But at least she wouldn't need to kill him. She didn't think she would be able to do that.

"Mostly everyone under his command was gone. Followed Rosalie after she offered more pounds per week," Glen said, "Most of Hayward's men had abandoned him, duty was spread between a handful of guards until he hired more. It was suffocating and sometimes impossible. I was one of the few men who stayed to guard him. But then… then I just couldn't take it. I knew I was defending a dead man. And I knew I was going to die with him if I stayed."

"He depended on you, and you betrayed him." May said, uneasy. She felt less and less trustful of Glen by the minute.

"What did you want me to do? Die for him? No. I wasn't going to sacrifice myself for a cowardly captain who didn't know when to leave his sinking ship."

Yes, Hayward was stubborn, rude to his men, and insufferable, but he didn't deserve all this.

She could only imagine what went through Haywards mind at that time. His daughter and niece had abandoned him. His own guards had been stolen by his daughter and one of his closest men. And everyone was plotting against him. He had his Templars, but even those eventually left his servitude one way or another, mostly because of Assassin effort. And now—killed by his own daughter, and some of his own men, because a lying, manipulating freak told them so. She honestly pitied him. She never liked the old prick, but no one deserves such a fate.

"And Rosalie? How was working with her?"

"She paid well, but a pigeon has more braincells…"

"It's surprising, since she was schooled… Not many women can say they were schooled."

Glen breathed in, staring into his steaming cocoa, "Perhaps it's not the appropriate line of work. Not everyone has a knack for business and leadership… and politics, more importantly. She built her team using money, not alliances. Her men are not as close-knit as Hayward's Templars were. If one were to die, the rest will mind his own hide, and try to protect the employer. Those are not men whose friendships were forged in battle, she merely forced a band of marauders to work together."

"And what about the Templars, do you think…" She bit her lip, then stared out the window, "Do you think you could be one of them, ever?"

He tutted, "Impossible. They pay good money, but I don't share their views—that is, I'm sure I won't share it if I ever got what they're talking about. Templars, Assassins, red sashes, who cares? I just want some cash."

Maybelle sighed, "Glen, I'm not exactly sure where Hayward's fortune will go to, after his daughter is dead. I'm surely not included in his will, if he wrote one. So… I don't care, when we get rid of Rosalie, you can loot the estate dry. The corniest piece of decoration you'd find there is probably worth our entire salaries."

Glen shrugged, then gulped his cocoa as if it was beer, not flinching as the hot and spicy liquid slid down his throat. He wiped his mouth with a loose sleeve and adjusted his collar with his free hand, "Gonna ask Jacob, I'm sure he wants a cut for himself."

"Yeah, about Jacob…"

Glen looked at her, pleased that she wanted to gossip about someone he immediately disliked.

"I know you're sending him and his Rooks to an empty mansion, but do you think he'll be stupid enough to believe it?"

Glen exhaled and leaned back, he looked bothered. Yeah, she didn't want to talk about it, either. But they had to.

"He already did."

"Do you think it's the right thing to do?" She asked, then sipped cocoa. The beverage reminded her of Will, reminded her what he did to everyone. Of course it's the right thing.

"Yes, do you have any other plan to get him out of the way?"

She shook her head. If she did, she wouldn't be lying to Jacob. But she had to become a part of Will to face him. And a huge part of Will was trickery.

If she told Jacob about her plan, he would forbid her from commencing, and then he'll march to Will's doorstep with an army of Rooks behind him. As if Will won't predict it. No, he had to move out of the way. He's not one for traps and subtle plans and mind-games. And he'll forgive her. Later, much later.

"I just… wish there's another way. It's not just about him. It's about me, too. I don't want to go… I don't know what will happen when I step foot in that building."

"It'll be like you planned. I promise."

May pointed at him, smiling, "You see, that's exactly what I'm afraid of."

A constant itch in her chin bothered Maybelle, she absent-mindedly scratched it. Glen noticed, then suddenly sat up as if he remembered something.

"There's a lot of things we can do other than reminisce." He said.

May gave him a disgusted once-over, "No thank you, I'd rather not do that."

Glen rolled his eyes, "Not that."

He pulled out a miniature box, dark blue and decorated with painted flowers and white leaves, he waved it in front of May's eyes. She followed it for a moment, then her eyes widened in recognition. She snatched the box, opened it, and stuffed a finger inside the sticky, dark lumps within. Her nostrils opened and closed as she tried to catch a whiff of the product. Maybelle smiled.

"Are you being serious? It's been almost two months off of it, and now you're reminding me of it?" May giggled, then looked at the box with glimmering appreciation.

Glen reached for the box, but she pulled it to his chest, she pouted.

"I'm sorry, I thought you didn't quit. I was trying to cut down, and I did, but I know I won't sleep the next few days, and I need a lot of sleep to keep my hand steady, you know that."

"I know that."

"So, I just thought… for old time's sake, and for the possibility that we won't get another hit in hell."

He snorted, "At least we'll all regroup there. Hayward, Rosalie, you and I, the men. It'll be as if nothing happened."

Suddenly, May realized she actually missed being a guard. Missing something, as far as she believed, was associated with strong, but sweet memories, memories you'd want to reexperience, memories that weren't painful. Her time at Hayward's was horrible, but it was life as she knew it, and through the course of some months, she managed to flip her life upside-down. Met a whole new world of people, experienced things no man should ever experience, and things everyone should at some point. She didn't know if she liked the safe, but poisonous prison of Hayward, or the endless dangers of what lies beyond the black fencing of his estate. She didn't know if nostalgia was unwelcome.

And maybe she liked safety a lot more than being threatened with a gun, or a fire, or a madman that wanted to bleed her dry. But no. She would serve no one, she promised herself. She is a free woman. And once Will is dead, the wait, nightmares, and sleepless nights will end. She will try her best to forget, to leave that chapter of her life behind.

There is no other way.

Glen puffed, and shoved his hand inside Maybelle's coat. She froze as he felt around for the inner pocket, eyes staring straight ahead. He found the tiny pipe she always keeps there, and pulled it out. He began to stuff it full of opium.

Maybelle tried not to look at him. It was wrong to conceive any feelings towards her old friend, mate, and brother for a lot of years. Things were blurred with Jacob, and it will only cause more confusion. She thought of something to say.

"Just for the record, whatever you do against me, I'll forgive it. I forgive you for what you've done. No harm will come to you. If you're facing a threat, I'll be the first who'll eliminate it." She said.

Glen sniffed, "Says the woman that will send me on an impossible mission."

She turned to him, then touched his shoulder. Calvin shifted in the background, bottles of rum and gin clinked together. Glen cleared his throat and packed the opium closer with his pinky.

"I'm doing this because they think you're still loyal to them."

"Yes, but this is Will we're talking about. Even if he knew I betrayed him, he'll still harm me one way or another. He's unpredictable."

"Yeah, no shit."

Glen shrugged, then stared at the full pipe. He pulled out some matches and lit the sacred thing. He took the first hit and passed the pipe.

May looked at it, a tiny portion of black paste that will give her a piece of mind like nothing else. She smiled at Glen, unable to express her gratitude.

She took a hit, and swallowed what might be the last bit of opium she'll ever taste.


	29. Chapter 29

There comes a time in everyone's life where they'll do anything to survive a misery.

That time is the time I operate.

I've seen countless men down on their luck, children who can't find a safe haven, people who had it all except something I have.

Saving them is a lot more profitable than leaving them to die, despite the satisfaction their demise would bring me.

With Maybelle Willis, it's different.

I'm the one who needed her.

And she needed nothing from me. There was nothing I could latch on and ruin for her. Nothing that I can use to lure her in. She left me in this eternal vortex of not understanding what I was going through. I never loved anyone. I am not capable of such a petty thing as love. I do not bend to those who smile at me. I do not serve those who had helped me. No, it's the other way around.

But she was the exception to all this, and more.

Not even time clarified what I want to do. She's my enemy, perhaps even before she refused to stand beside me. She hated me ever since she saw me, and wanted to kill me for everything I've done with her. And that meant my plan was working—get that walking headache out of the way so I could have my revenge without her interference.

But as I dug deep into her life and her upbringing, I realized I fell for the worst person I could ever fall for, and yet, the best match I could possibly find.

And now, I stand here, waiting for her, hoping her curiosity will lure her to me. Nameless, timeless, and independent. I'm waiting for her blood, yet wanting to be as close to her as possible.

The doorknob twists, the antique, large door creaks as it opens. A young woman takes two careful steps into the hallway. Peers at the parlour, feels a pang of nostalgia when she spots the blue wallpaper, then a pang of fear as she realizes no one is home.

I don't see all this, I hear it, I guess it. People are predictable. People are nothing but a pattern to discern.

Yet the visitor is one person I couldn't fully analyse.

Like what is it that makes me feel that way towards her.

She walks into the kitchen and sniffs the recent smell of turtle soup. Don't worry, my dear, no one's home. The Morvells listen to me. That's why they _randomly_ found you lying in an obscure alleyway. They will repay me over and over again after I saved their daughter from brain damage. Of course, they didn't know I was the one who sent that driver towards Tara and her rider.

But it doesn't matter what I've done. The man I'm hunting had done worse.

"Hello?!" She calls, wanting a presence she'll regret. She'll probably creep upstairs and gawk at Jennie's gallery. Maybe take a look at her old room. Which has been occupied by another fellow the Morvells took in.

She reaches the third storey and hurries to Jennie's gallery. Compared to her, I am as quiet as a panther. But that's because of Jacob's forced teachings. He said if my toes didn't ache like they were burned by the time I'm done with the day's training, I'm not doing it right. He's a prick, but he did have a point.

May moves around in Jennie's gallery. I enter after her, and watch her soundlessly as she views the last few paintings Jennie had done. Still drying against the wall. Then she notices the one on the easel and moves closer to it. The faint sketch, done by charcoal on the tight canvas, looks at her with ghostly, unfilled eyes. A woman with medium-length hair. On the ground, beside the easel, are two finished paintings, almost identical to each other. One of them has her face, but with long red hair pasted on, the other is her clone with green eyes and a pale casual dress. It's sad, to think that she'll never know what the third painting looks like.

I wonder what sort of impression she left on Jennie. Was that girl _that_ eager for a friend?

I inch forward, arms on the ready. I feel like the grey fox on the wall is watching me, damn thing. I stop just behind May. The room smells like dry paint and oil, but I could smell her. Her hair smells like coal and her clothes smell like cocoa, apple juice, and mixed spices. Despite the mix being unwanted and odd, I find it soothing. No, control yourself. You can't lose focus. You need to do what you have to do.

May traces a finger along the outlines of the charcoal eyes staring at her, I watch the slender digit. One I'll probably cut later to prove a point.

The spot where she shot me is still pounding occasionally. She deserves this. She chose this. I narrow my eyes and hook the bend of my arm around her neck. She yelps and kicks her feet. The easel falls sideways. This won't hurt you. I'm not like the unwitting Jacob, subjecting you to chloroform that could kill you. She tries to pry my arm off, but it's too tight around her neck. My darling whimpers and claws at my neck. I swallow and stare at the curtains. She closes her eyes and goes limp. That's it. It's over. Good girl.

I carry her in my arms and exit the gallery.

The building smells like the dozen beggars the Morvells _adopted_. Like stale urine and damp clothing. The steps are work-out and dirty. No number of maids can clean up this sort of mess. I reach the ground floor and cross the parlour, the threshold, the point of no return. I stop in the hallway, watch the bland, focused eyes of the Morvell family watch me from a framed picture. I'm not hesitating, I'm just uneasy with the thought of imprisoning May like I did so many others before her.

I inhale and exit to the carriage that just arrived.

* * *

Maybelle looks like another person when she's out. No condescending comments, no cross gazes, no infinite scowl between two thick brows. I don't know what I like best—the challenge of taming a tiger, or the ease of embracing a kitten.

I wish it wasn't this way. Our lives, I mean. I wish I met her in another life. Perhaps a life where I'm a simpleton tending to a dry farm, and she's a naïve young woman who still wears her hair in double braids and likes to watch sunrises. No, what am I saying? This is not us, and will never be us. Because if that was us, I wouldn't want her, and perhaps I would never even meet her.

The hardship of being part of something underground is the element that defines us. The link that binds us. The pain that separates us.

May opens her eyes, light blue even in the darkness of this cellar. She looks around, either ignoring me or not spotting me for a good while. I'm right in front of her, slouching in a tall chair, arm draped over the back of it. She finally sees me, and blinks away the madness of her abyssal dreams. Her face shows no emotion. Just two narrowed eyes that glare at me, burning like the glowing end of a cigarette.

She lets her eyelids drop, "I should've seen this coming."

I play along, "Yes, I thought you'd be smarter," I rise and pace around, "You seemed to be quite resourceful when you were on your Templar killing spree."

"Are you mad that I killed your friends?" She asks, opening her eyes. The line between her lips practically curves upwards.

I scoff, "They're not my friends, if you haven't concluded."

"Then who is?" She asks, smiling at me as if special intelligence was needed to from this question.

"No one, no one is a friend. Everyone is someone you should fear," I said, then decide to admit my ordeal, "Just look at you. I tried to have you closer to me than anyone has gotten, and you pushed all that away."

"I pushed it away because you're a-"

"Madman?" I finished for her, then roll my eyes, "You've called me that many times now, more in your head, I'm sure. Don't you think it's time for another insult?"

She searches the ground, "Then you're a megalomaniac," she spits.

"That's more like it."

I take my time moving to the chemistry table—a makeshift laboratory, supplied by some gear salvaged from the train's storage room, and others bought not too long ago from a _friend_ of mine. Chloroform, Cyanide, Arsenic, Sulphuric acid, Ether, Godfrey's Cordial, and Morphine. Things one needs to torture a person, or to silence him for a time or forever.

She tries to watch me, having trouble in locating me every few seconds. I pick up a full glass of water from the table. The water, fetched from a nearby well, is poisonous enough without adding anything to it. But she seems to be content in drinking this deadly swill.

I bring it in front of her, she looks down, at the water's surface.

"I would bring you beer, but…"

She turns her head away, "I don't want a drink."

"You do seem to be parched."

She refuses to answer.

I sigh and place the glass next to her chair. Then I lower myself into mine. I cross my legs.

"You know, your friend is pretty fond of beer." I say.

I relish in the brief flash of wide eyes she shows, then buries, "Who are you talking about?"

"Not Jacob. I really wish it was, but no."

A crease appears between her brows as she thinks, "I don't know what you mean."

I make a tiny, unimpressed groan, "We drank together, he listens to his boss when he tells him to down a mug of beer. Even when he doesn't consider him his boss no more, good lad."

She tries—and fails—to supress a shaking that overtakes her tied hands.

"What's the matter? Are you worried about your little mole?"

She says nothing, instead, she tries to hide her visible unease.

"Well, you don't have to worry anymore. He ingested a lick of arsenic, just the tip of the teaspoon dissolved in his beer. More than enough. Funny what grocers sell, eh?"

I watch as her flushed face expectedly turns into a pale white. I look away.

Panic, I used to love watching it in people's eyes, their carefully crafted plans of escaping losing credibility with one sentence. But I don't like seeing it on her. She made my heart softer than a pig's belly. I force myself to look at her. She's chewing her lip, staring at nothing, tears already leaking out her eyes.

"I'm sorry, but you have to do better than that."

"Jacob will come back and kill you, he'll come back for you!"

She utters the prick's name as if he's a noble saviour—exactly what he thinks he is. What people think he is. He saved hundreds of orphans by shoving them into a Rooks outfit, he did what his ancestors did, and forced a boy to fight for him. That boy was hungry. That boy had no one.

There comes a time in everyone's life where they'll do anything to survive a misery.

"You sent Jacob to Buckinghamshire, don't you remember?" I ask.

"He'll know what happened and come for you!"

"What makes you so sure he'll succeed? Or better yet, what makes you think he cares about you? About anyone he promises to protect?"

Her lips quiver, her words come out choppy, "I trust him."

"Why? Because he betrayed you? Because he's a formidable foe and an incredible ally?" I say, "He's nothing but a worm. And he won't find you. He might not even be back. Rosalie and her Banshees are a scapegoat, but they might put him down for good."

"You're sacrificing her?!" She shouts, trying to leap out of the ropes.

"I thought you hated your cousin."

"She trusted you! And you're sacrificing her?!"

Of course I am. Where else will I get thousands of pounds? A woman who has fallen for my ploy of a lovesick gentlemen, whose deeply in love with her and is promising her power unimaginable. She'd do anything for me. It couldn't get easier.

"If you haven't noticed, my dear, there's a pattern that had formed long ago. You shouldn't be surprised."

"No, I shouldn't. You manipulating pint of piss!" She says, "And you expected me to join you?!" She allows herself a bitter laugh, "How can anyone trust you?! You're the devil himself!"

Devil. Madman. Monster. Lunatic. Dangerous. Unhinged. Unpredictable.

I've heard all these, and more. Especially when I try to be someone I'm not.

I was once known as Jean Bollen, the obedient son that worked at his father's needle factory.

And as Oswald Grant. The orphan who carries food and medicine to his five sick sisters every day.

And as Rohan Davidson. The hero who saved a child from drowning in a well in Suffolk.

And as Shawn Herman. A man travelling to Edinburgh on a 'business errand'.

All men are seen for a short while, and never seen again.

So many identities, so many names. Becoming that many people—having so much info and names and places stuffed into your head—it becomes confusing and irritating.

It once felt good to become them. To be someone that is not me. To lie about reality. To trick someone so thoroughly that they believe your every false word.

Jacob made me these words.

He made me a hundred men I'm not.

Until I lost who I truly am.

I fill the wrong shoes so fully, so completely, now. But at what price?

Maybelle Willis is the only person who reminded me who I was.

Phillip Winters.

A baby boy, two months old, that was abandoned by the door of a flat. With nothing but the flimsy cloth wrapped around him. No name. No identity. No money. Nothing.

The woman inside that flat took me in. Her name was Iris Fitzwater. She was the second person I truly loved. And she died of yellow fever.

May is still glaring at me, she's resisting to blink.

"Yes, I'm the devil." I say, shaking my head and snorting, "But not with you, you became the exception to everything."

"No."

"I loved you, you know. Before you chose that cult leader over me."

"Love?" She chuckles, "You know not of love. You know of cruelty and trickery and betrayal."

"But I knew love for you."

"Shut up! I'll never believe a word you say!" She says, "You're an immoral, murderous, conniving villain. If you have a code to follow, it's jumbled beyond recognition and neither white nor black. But its own colour. Your mere existence is a danger. No one knows who you are! You switch identities like a parasite switching bodies! You're a criminal. You… you just…!" Her anger runs out of steam. And she whimpers instead, staring at me like something she once wanted. It was painful, seeing that look, crushed hope and a vengeful rage forced into an impossible union.

I snorted, ruffling my hair and sweeping it away from my forehead, "And what are you, then? Haven't you accompanied criminals since the day you were born? Haven't you reluctantly served the Templars, and willingly served the Assassins? What does this make you? Barring your title of sterling boot-licker, you're also a criminal. Like everyone in this war. Like me."

She shakes her head, refusing to swallow my words, "There's a rift between us that will never be crossed. I am not you, and you are not me, and we will never be one and the same."

"But that's where you're wrong, our goals might not be the same, but we have the same passion when we chase after them. You wanted that gauntlet so badly, you sacrificed everything to get it. And you didn't even know if it was just a legend. You have heart, like me. We are each other, my darling. We are each other."

"No, no… We're infinitely different."

"I'm just as selfish as you are! You left your old life behind, you betrayed the Templars, you forgave the killing of your friends only to work with their murderer. You killed countless men that served Hayward's servants. Men who had families and children and lives of their own, men who would be deemed as innocent as you would be-wide-eyed minions of demons that only wanted to go home. I do whatever I have to do for the sake of my goals, and I know that you do the same."

She closed her eyes at the mention of Blake's men.

"At least, when I killed them, I felt something. Something much different than what you feel when you torment others. Remorse."

I smirk at the word. Remorse. If I knew I was going to regret killing someone, why kill them? "You still killed someone. There's no running from that."

She looks away, pursing her lips. She already knows what I'm telling her.

"What are you going to do to me?" She asks, dread in her voice, eyes still staring at the cracked wall of the cellar.

"What am I going to do to you?" I ask myself, then sigh, "When people are tied to this very chair, they usually end up dead and disposed of."

She looks at me and presses her lips together, "And what about me?"

That, I have no answer for. I look at her for a good minute, trying to fight the melding emotions that appear when I see her eyes. Do I love her? Not anymore. Did I love her? I said so, but did I? Perhaps not, but I wanted to.

I wanted to.

"I'm sorry to say, but I brought you here for a reason."

She faces the masked inevitability with grace, she doesn't wail, she doesn't yell, but fidgets a bit against the tight ropes. Instead of fear or desperation, she looks irritated. Teeth clenched, scowling. Someone beat her at a game she thought she was going to win.

"When?" She asks.

I want to look at her a little longer.

"In a bit."

She says nothing, wriggles her wrists to see if the ropes are loose. They're not. Her hands are bluish, I don't think she'll keep them even if I loosen the ropes.

She looks at me like a lady who's been forced to sit through a play she already watched. Then she yawns, as if to bolster the effect.

"I want to kill you so bad." She says in a childlike voice, pouting. Like a little psychopath.

"How so? I remember you told me you'd never have the heart to kill me."

"Because I thought you hadn't the heart to betray me."

"What a mistake, that is." And terribly common, and very disappointing. Someone like me needs an intelligent foe to be stimulated, and I haven't met him, so far. Jacob is nothing but a rotten nuisance who has crooks worshiping him, and obviously, protecting him. The Templars are even more laughable.

Maybelle's delicate hardness is the only thing that challenged me for a good while, and that doesn't count.

Her exhaustion is contagious. I haven't slept for two days, and the day before I only slept for three hours. It's very hard to sleep when there's many people vying to put your head on a platter. Besides, I need to plan my next move, and I like to do it in private, even if the intruding person is on death row.

I check the ropes again, they are restricting her breathing. I climb out of the cellar and let her make her peace with god and herself.

* * *

I slept dreamlessly for a good hour at my desk until something woke me up.

I'm not sure what. A noise? I look out the heavy curtains, Devil's Acre was itself. A crowded cesspool of poverty and sickness that keeps floundering in its own misery through the night. I could've chosen somewhere more abandoned, but the Creed's second tenet was 'Hide in plain sight', and old habits die slow, despite my wanting them to die fast.

Plus, who wants to risk catching Typhoid and walk into this place?

It could be any of my wonderful neighbours who decided to have a forced orgy with a handful of prostitutes who probably won't be paid. Or thieves robbing thieves of their latest take. But no, my mind is still foggy, but I'm sure whatever woke me did it from inside the house.

Jacob isn't in London-my men saw him leaving with a group of his toughest Rooks. Anyone who knows where May went is either dead or feigning ignorance. May's bindings are wrapped tightly and with a complexity no one will be able to decipher. Unless someone trained them in knots. A Lark's head around the wrists and ankles, and many layers of rope around the chest secured by square knots. The square knots are simple, but I doubt she can get to them. She can't chew through the ropes, and can't even cut through them fast enough if I missed a weapon she had on her.

But I need to check, just in case.

I get up, but I freeze halfway to the cellar. Wait…

It can't be.

I zip back to my desk and struggle to seize the gun that keeps slipping out my hand like a mouse. I finally grasp it and hurry to the cellar.

I burst in, sulphuric acid is odourless, but I can see it sizzling on the wooden floor. Along with two chairs, glass splinters from the smashed large bottle of the acid, and ropes, lots of ropes. Still slowly melting, but with the key knots corroded to nothing but fumes.

I just stand there, stiller than a corpse. She's seen it before, acid eating through the floor of the train. She remembered. She remembered.

I feel the air stirring behind me. No one should ever sneak up on an assassin, but my aptitude is lost in the sea of disbelief that's almost drowning me. For the shortest possible moment, I'm proud of her. I made a bittersweet choice. The woman I chose is the woman that outsmarted me. Death might come to you not as the blackest midnight, but as the brightest sun.

I turn and shoot twice. She cries and lunges forward, and stabs a piece of glass deep within my neck. Once, twice, thrice. I shoot again.

We both drop, and crawl away from each other, the acid, and the splinters. We make a bloody path away from each other, a diagonal sweep made by fabric and buttons and flesh. I press my hand to my neck, then raise the gun to shoot her again, but I can barely see her.

I cough out blood. I force myself to stand, my feet slip on bright blood. Arterial blood, not good.

My mind focuses on one goal, outshining everything I ever sought for in my life—getting the hell away from her. It's like a primal instinct stronger than anything I can do to contradict. I drag myself up the stairs and crawl forwards. I don't know where, I don't see where.

How could I let this happen? How could I be so careless? Why did I underestimate her like I did everyone? Why didn't I just kill her the moment I got her here?

I wanted to keep her just a while longer, to thoroughly see those baby blues before they turned white. This is my downfall—my twisted care for her.

My fingers touch the end of a curtain. No one would be interested in saving us, they're busy taking care of their own relatives who are soon-to-depart.

She catches up with me, dragging herself across the splintering wood, groaning with every crawl as if she was dragging a cart. Friction is put at ease by the stream of blood her chest is leaking. The room smells of iron and sweat.

She stops beside me, staring at me with those soulful eyes even as she bleeds out. She has too many holes to cover. I managed to hit her in the chest twice, and in the shoulder once. I'm too disoriented to think about which side.

To speed things up, my darling grasps my wrist with a hand that's barely holding its own weight, and pries off the tight hold I've put on my wounds. Then puts her hand in mine, the sick, twisted freak, my female reflection, my light. I squeeze her hand almost religiously, the fervour coming from death's cold embrace slowly wrapping around me. I want her to die, I want her to die so badly, but I also want to hold her in a conflicting moment that lasts forever.

Now I feel what she feels. When she learned there's no gold to unearth. When all her sorrow, all her pain, all that she endured to get to that point, was for naught. Rather than unearth, I wanted to bury. A shallow grave for a shallow man.

And nothing.

Time doesn't stop or slow down when you're about to die. It gallops by, not giving you a chance to revere the few memories you held onto for a lifetime. It gives me no time except to look at her.

It's a draw, my eyes say.

I know, the subtle parting of her lips says.

I'm sorry, the slight crinkling of my eyes says.

"Why did it have to be you?" She asks in the faintest, weakest of voices.

But I hear. I understand. She hasn't fallen to the Eden abyss like everyone else, she has fallen to her downfall.


	30. Chapter 30

The Rooks huddled together in the omnibus, filling it almost completely. Jacob had hired it and told the driver to wait for a group of marauders who may or may not be delayed through the lengthy process of commuting in a zig-zag line to Amersham. It never hurts to be too careful. Especially when dealing with the Templars, or his own spymaster.

Jacob sighed and slouched in his seat, he stared out the grimy window across, over the heads of Rooks who sat in a neat, shoulder-to-shoulder line on the opposite side. Jacob survived the crippling loneliness of his sister's departure because of the Rooks, hardened soldiers when they needed to, unforgiving robbers and scammers when they have to. They all avoided his gaze as it swept over them, each of them choosing a spot in the windows or ceiling and focusing there. The group was almost-fully dressed in black (as an attempt to blend in with the Banshees), glinting, clean weapons dangled from their sides and were strapped to their backs, they looked like reapers who hadn't claimed a soul in ages.

However, all forms of intimidation doesn't work on William.

Jacob sulked in his seat, not bothering to say much. He was going to collapse from exhaustion, yet he was kept awake by worry and the rhythmic sound of the horse's hooves beating along a dirt path. He thought about May, and the task he left her—take care of the Rooks while I'm gone. Though he made sure it was actually the other way around. He left her in the biggest headquarters in Southwark, surrounded by well-armed and well-trained Rooks. He hoped it's enough.

The town of Amersham began to embrace them. Hedgerows of silver birch and oak had shed long ago, the leaves blown away by wind, nowhere to be found in the dreary winter. The men shifted in their seats, Jacob twiddled his thumbs as he studied his muddied boots.

The path ended at one of the omnibus stops. The men arranged themselves in a double-line as if they were schoolmates, and neatly escaped the suffocating confinement of the long ride. Jacob followed at the foot of the lines. He stepped out of the omnibus and stared at the town around her. The street was lined with brick houses both withered and new, across was a wide field, dark green, still moist with rain, the dirt still muddy. Beyond was a birch forest, the birds chirped despite the biting cold.

The omnibus dropped them off right by a medium-sized estate, the walls of the brick building were overgrown with ivy and purplish flowers, tall hedges fenced the area, and the lawn was well-manicured. The air smelled of flowers and dew. But no sign of human presence appeared.

Jacob's men began to lose their tidy arrangement and piled into the small archway cut out of the hedges. They began to chat aimlessly, walking along the stone path until they reached and climbed to the porch. One of them, a man with copper skin and brown hair, knocked on the door.

The road's been long, too long. And Jacob hoped it wouldn't be too much to ask. The man who lived there owed him a few favours, he'd saved his bum from some enemies in London who vowed to drown him in the Thames if he doesn't pay up his enormous debt.

The door opened, and a maid stood there glancing wildly at every weather-worn and battle-hardened face. Every piercing, cold set of eyes stared back. The maid hid half of her face behind the door and blathered a few hesitant words, and she departed. The owner of the estate appeared shortly after, a forced smile on his face. He had black hair that decayed to grey the closer it got to his ears. His dimples were deepened by his solid smile. He opened the door wide.

"Why, hello, Jacob."

"Roy Mills. A pleasure to see you again."

Roy looked at the dozen Rooks, "May I help you, man?" He mumbled.

Jacob pushed through the sea of soldiers, "Yes, actually. You told me once you owed me, and I said I don't need anything from you, and I'm just doing my duty. And you told me it won't do, and I'll need you at some point. Well..."

Roy smiled knowingly, "Now?"

"Now."

* * *

Surrounded by trees and upon tall, wild grass rich with frost, the Rooks walked under the oak and willow bare canopy, finally welding into one group. Jacob took the path with one group, while another split into another, stronger collection. The men's soles were already covered with dew and sludge. Jacob turned his collar to the wind, leaves crushing under his boots. The sun was highest, and although it was a clear day, the sun managed to warm only their heads, the rest of their bodies struggled to cope with the biting wind.

A squirrel scurried away from the stampede and retreated to its tree, birds landed on high branches that swung in the wind. Jacob rubbed her hands together, and the hidden blades almost flew open, cutting his fingers, but he relaxed his muscles at the last moment. One can never relax while wearing one of these, that's the first thing Ethan told him about the hidden blades.

The journey was quiet, and the long wait amidst the trees was laden with slow preparations. He sat on a tree stump and watched as his men loaded their guns and tightened their belts. They sharpened their swords on pocket whetstones and adjusted hidden holsters that held their backup weapons, ones the enemy couldn't see.

Jacob warmed up with some hidden blade manoeuvres further away from the group, spinning on his heels and crouching for an uppercut with his knuckles. The snipers cleaned the scopes of Winchesters, then loaded them. Discarded boxes of bullets were on the ground, as well as bore brushes and gun oil. Rooks passed a bag of biscuits as they worked, a bit of sugar to stave off hunger and worry. Sleeves were folded, litter buried, shirts tucked. The rest of the time was spent with the occasional word, uttered only to keep everyone from getting lost in the cold.

Rooks leaned against trees, sat on stumps, watched the afternoon overwhelm the sky. They looked at Jacob, waiting. Men of all walks of life. Men with beards and stubble and whiskers, with dark skin and pale skin, blondes and brunettes and redheads. Bald. Tall. Short. Wide. Thin. Freckled. Scarred. Burned. Tattooed. They all waited for one word.

Jacob stared at the ticking watch in his hand, he'd been staring for the last twenty minutes, only looking up to see if the situation changed at the mansion, which was still ten minutes from their position. His hand almost crunched the delicate silver, waiting, his breath coming out foggy.

Once the hands approached three forty-five, he said, "Now."

His men stood up all at once, straightening their clothing and gripping their chosen weapons.

Jacob said, "Go, let's go. It's time," as he approached the head of the group and led the Rooks towards the mansion, sticking close to the shadow of willows, looking this way and that.

At the end of the path, the huge metal gates were partially open, leading to a wide grass area, the garden thoroughly abandoned after Rosalie either fired the gardeners or used them somewhere else. The grass was trampled, year-old oranges littered the ground, their citric smell long since faded. Blossoms made way for tiny oranges. The evergreen trees posed a brilliant disguise for the Rooks. On the left was the greenhouse, dusty and overrun with ivy and rust. And in the midst of all this was the mansion, its beige exterior already brightened by indoor gaslight, pointed towers and arches and roofs blemished by dirt, pigeon shit, and coal-dust.

Jacob stopped at the gates, crouched. Then pointed with two fingers to the path beyond the gates. He went through the tight opening, tiptoeing through the endless acres of the estate. Rooks followed him, then spread into unequal groups, each going to their planned positions. Jacob took off towards the overgrown bushes and stone railings that surrounded the greenhouse.

Once there, he positioned herself amidst the roots, broken branches, sludge, and bits of stone. He peered at the peaking hills and the orange forest one last time, then looked at the silhouettes behind the windows.

He grabbed his revolver.

And fired towards the darkening sky.

The cold of the wind faded and bullets began flying through windows, railings, and doors, going in, and going out. Falling like rain, ricocheting, spinning, launching. The air filled with echoing gunshots, rifles and revolvers and shotguns, the sound of metal cutting through flesh magnified, the thud of a dozen bodies. Furniture exploded inside the mansion, tree bark scraped off, branches snapped. Rooks yelped, Banshees cried in agony. Battle cries and groans and howls. Dirt exploding. Horses neighing, some of them crashing through the rickety gates of their stables, chaotically running into the fray, getting shot in the process, falling and tumbling and rolling through the grass.

And then ammo began drying. Rooks took the opportunity and rushed to the mansion. Jacob stood from his position and prepared his blades. He zipped past flying bullets from either side, and stopped at the mansion's wall. The Rooks began to break down the door to reach the treasures and enemies within, but Jacob knew his target wouldn't just wait for them.

He shot his rope towards the roof and began scaling the many storeys. He dodged bullets from his own Rooks that went through the glass and went through the heads of Banshees, and hid from men who shielded themselves behind the railings of a balcony, until bullets went through the railings and ended them.

He lifted himself over the railings and let his rope move back into its chamber. Then went in the French doors.

Inside was only the echo of the war outside, screams and bullets and cracking bone. The study he walked into was turned upside down, as if someone was trying to salvage as many riches or intel possible. Jacob traversed through the mahogany maze and burst through the closed door. The hallway's only presence were the disturbed dust motes moved around by a nearby breeze. Jacob spotted a door at the end of the hallway, open, swinging. He hurried there.

It was a bedroom, coloured wine-red and crowded with drapery and statuettes. A woman was standing on the windowsill, shaking hands grasping the walls, head bowed to look at the far drop.

"Rosalie, stop!" Jacob raised his gun and inched closer to the woman.

She slightly jumped, and stared at him like so many before her—as if he was the inevitable end of her soul.

She looked at the drop, then back at Jacob, then lowered herself against the wall. Jacob lunged towards the window and fired—without looking—towards the wall. Rosalie was descending roughly, hands barely touching a ledge before she fell to another. Then she let go.

She fell a story, then landed on her side. Jacob fired again, but she rolled. She cried, then groaned as she scrabbled to stand up, stumbling many times and finally succeeding. She bolted to the greenhouse.

Jacob heard his men finally break through the main doors. They piled in and began stomping through the mansion, looking for Banshees or Templars or money. Jacob watched as the tall woman jogged through the bloody grass and corpses and arrived at the path leading to the greenhouse, seeking safety inside the glass building.

Jacob cursed under his breath, if he just stayed there, he could've gotten her. But he wanted to find Will, before Will found him.

But someone needs to kill Rosalie, or else she'll rebuild the templars using the grandmaster's fortune. Something told Jacob she had no chance, but he couldn't just let her go.

Maybe she knew where his prick of a spymaster went.

Jacob walked in the dirty doors, and sighed as a warmth enveloped him. He lifted his gun and listened for any movements. His trudged through muck and moss and breathed in the scent of dried flowers and dead stalks. The greenhouse appeared to be endless, a huge span of racks and pots and platforms. After a while, every path he crossed felt like a familiar one. Mauve roses and orchids and Alliums and Daffodils, pepper and cucumber and sweet potatoes. Small potted trees. Vines. Plants with long stalks of leaves that spilled over wooden shelves. The smell of clouded warmth and dewy roots, dead leaves and buzzing insect nests. It all became a blur of similarities.

Jacob heard a blast to his left, the bullet ricocheted off his gauntlet's metal knuckles, but the impact knocked his gun out of his hand. He quickly scooped up his gun and hid behind the rack beside him, then continued to the right, and stood behind a small potted palm.

He looked at his hand, which was alright. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, Rosalie knew this place a lot more than he did, he has to remember that.

"Leave me alone! Or I'll… I'll kill you!" Her voice echoed, Jacob found it hard to pinpoint its source.

"Where's William?" He said, then crept through the dirt path, away from her, "Where is he?"

"I'm not going to tell you! My men will come and help me kill you! Just you wait!"

"Rose, they're all gone," he said, then stopped behind a rack of wilting flowers, "we've killed them all."

"Will is going to send more men, and they'll… kill you!" She fired at a blackened plant peering over some wooden boxes, thinking it was his hair.

Jacob walked to the end of the rack and turned to face the source of the bullet, he raised his gun and stayed quiet as he walked low against the racks. He peered through two bags of dry dirt and found her before she found him.

He jumped out of his hiding and fired. He hit her shoulder, stomach, and chest. She screeched, and felt around her body, unable to fathom the pain that erupted in multiple spots all at once.

Jacob came to her, then crouched beside her. He didn't want to kill her, but he had to. She's the last templar in London, and she was trying to kill him.

"I'm sorry, but you forced my hand." He said, then looked at her gun, far from her grasp.

"I forced your hand?" Rosalie tried to laugh, but grimaced instead, and slid her hands towards her slippery abdomen, "Or did your creed force you?"

Jacob scowled, "My creed forced me nothing. I had to kill you because you're a threat to humanity."

"And you're not?" She spat, then growled as a sudden pain tore through her, "I'm running out of breath, and I still need to tell you."

"Tell me about William's whereabouts?"

Her chest shook slightly, "No, I'm not going to tell you that. But there's a letter in the office, up there, still sealed, I tried to find it, but…" she sighed, "I want you to take it, it's for May, it's for my cousin."

His eyes flicked up, "I'm not doing anything for you until you tell me about Will."

"You have to go, now… you have to go back to London and save her."

"Save her?" Jacob tossed his gun and put his hand under Rosalie's neck, "From what? Is he there? Is he back in London?!"

"Save her, please…"

Then her green-blue eyes lost life like two coloured flames dying.

* * *

 **Four months later**

Jacob stared at the letter between his hands, smudged with dirt, ink, and many fingerprints. The words were embedded in his head, carved into his skull, he fell asleep reading it for many nights, and woke up thinking about it for many days.

The hills rolled by, Jacob looked out the train's windows, the biting wind shook the tree leaves and weaved through the spread of grass. Then the hills gave away to the start of civilization—fenced houses and textile factories and parks, apothecaries and hospitals, markets and slums, clotheslines and stray dogs and sweaty men hammering glowing metal, dressed in few articles despite the cold.

To Jacob, all cities looked the same and felt the same—they felt like opportunity, yet looked like trouble. The name doesn't matter, the people are the same, and his mission is always the same.

But this time, his mission is different.

He got off at the station and walked into Stockport, he knew nothing of Manchester, but he trusted the letter to take him where he needed.

The hansom he stopped followed Jacob's instructions perfectly, and dropped him off at the address mentioned in the letter. Jacob put on his hat and walked to the door.

He knocked on the cracked wood and waited. He stared at the vines climbing the bricks and watched as his breath came out foggy. The door opened, a plump woman with a cleft chin appeared, two boys were clinging to her skirt.

"Is this Mister Stanway's house?"

The woman forced her small lips to smile, "Artie is working, but how can I help you?"

Jacob swallowed, felt like retreating even after the many hours it took to get here. He waited so long because he was broken, but also because he wasn't sure if he wanted to do this.

"My name is Jacob Frye. I got this letter, from your friend, I assume?" Jacob handed the letter over.

The woman out the paper and read slowly, her boys pulled at her skirt, whining, she shushed them.

"This was meant to reach Maybelle Willis, her sister."

"Yes, but she…" Jacob sighed, then shuffled his feet, "she passed, just four months ago."

The woman's smile sagged, "Oh my, I'm so sorry."

He ignored that, "I came to do what she was going to, because no one else will."

The woman looked at her boys, then shrugged, "After Myra died of consumption, I had to take him in, because I had no other choice, but-" she opened the door wider, "But as you can see, I got my hands full," she pointed to a girl playing on the ground with a stuffed doll.

"I understand, you don't have to explain anything. I've come to take him home."

"Will he be safe?" The woman asked, "I promised her, I did." Her boys ran off to chase each other around the house.

"Of course he will be, his aunt and his mother's cousin left him a lot, and it'll be all his when he's old enough."

"And for now?"

Jacob smiled sadly, "For now, I'll give him what he needs."

The woman nodded, then without looking away, called for the lad.

The young boy hurried down the stairs and stomped to the door, he had black hair and blue eyes, a pale complexion, and was taller than his age allowed.

"Sam, this is uncle Jacob. He knew your aunt, you're going with him to London, to your new home."

The boy looked at the woman, frowning, "But what about here? This is my home."

"I know, my dear, but London is your true home," she crouched and cupped his cheeks, "do you understand? It's where you belong, it's where you're meant to go."

"I thought I was going to stay with you," Sam said, pouting.

The woman appeared to be torn up over that, "I know that, dearie, but I—" she exhaled and tried to think of a response, "I love you with all my heart, your mother was my friend, but I can't give you what she saved up for you, not from here, you have to go to London to get that. You won't be alone, I'll send you letters, and you'll have uncle Jacob taking care of you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." She smiled at him.

Sam looked up at the tall stranger in black, and the stranger smiled.

"Go get your stuff."

* * *

"Did you really know my mother?" The young boy asked as he watched the city give away to grass.

"I did, but not personally. I knew your aunt, which told me some about her."

"You knew my aunt?"

"Yes," Jacob said, "Maybelle Willis, she was an extraordinary woman."

"How did she die?"

"She died of sickness."

"Like my mother?"

"Like your mother."

Jacob opened the local newspaper and tried to find something interesting.

"Did she hunt?"

"What?"

"Mother told me she used to hunt with my aunt."

"They did hunt." Jacob said.

"What did she hunt?"

Templars, gangsters, and spymasters, "Deer and rabbit."

"Was she good?"

Jacob smiled as he remembered, "She was the best."

"Did you know my grandfather?"

"No."

"Mother said he died of illness, along with my grandmother."

"Mother is right." Jacob said.

"I miss my dad. Mother said he left because he was too poor and went to New York to earn money for us, but he never came back. Did you know him?"

"No."

"I wish you did, he loved me very much."

"I know he did."

"I wish I can be like my aunt, a hunter. I want to hunt deer and rabbit."

Jacob snorted, "Perhaps when you're older."

"Uncle Jacob, what do you do for a living?"

Jacob looked up from the advertisement about canned tomatoes. This is it, this is the question that will define what he wanted to introduce to the boy. He could ease him into the subject over the span of a couple years, then start training him to 'hunt deer and rabbits'. Then train him to stab, and to spy, and to kill. And then he'll introduce him into the assassin brotherhood. A novice, who had just earned his red sash, but still needs to earn his master's respect, until his master promotes him to be his right-hand-man.

Jacob looked out the window. Maybelle would've loved Manchester, she would've loved her nephew, and she would've loved him.

He wanted to show her that the phantom was alive.

But he couldn't. William took that from him, the same way he took everything else. He has to rebuild the assassins from the ground up, has to reorder the Rooks and build himself a network of spies. And it's all because he introduced a young boy to his world. This world of misery and death, power and cruelty, blood and bullets.

He's not letting that happen again.

"I work in a perfume factory. You know, your mother's uncle has some factories, and a big, big house in London. And one in Buckinghamshire. They're all yours."

"Really?!"

"Really."

* * *

 _Dear Maybelle,_

 _I miss you so much it hurts, and I love you, and I regret leaving you behind, regret everything I've done to us. But I had to, and you know why, and I had to leave you behind because staying meant my death._

 _And now I realize I would give anything to see you again, but I know it's not possible. Not with the distance. Between Manchester and London. Between you and me._

 _I wish we had more time, so much more. I was jealous of you because I saw everything you didn't. Your beauty, your power, the love you give to everyone so purely. You loved even our father, even your sister, who hated you with all her heart. And then I turned my back on you, my sweet little sister, the only sister I'll ever have._

 _I would cross the distance to see you again, because I love you. Even if I come crawling. But I can't even crawl, I'm too sick. Sometimes I feel I can't breathe, sometimes I feel I'm already dead. It's been weeks since I've last seen my son—yes, May, you have a nephew. His father left me and immigrated with some rich woman who's not slowly dying. I kept my son because I gave up everything to keep him. And then I worked, day and night in the most unforgiving of conditions. I worked because I loved him, because I'd give anything to see him safe._

 _Which leads me to this._

 _I know I'm not in a position to ask anything of you, since I already took from you a lot. But I want you to keep him safe, because you and him, you're the only people left. And there's no one else to take care of him. I have a neighbour, but she's three kids and she might have more. Which means he might have to work, to help out. But I don't want him to work, it's quite obvious why._

 _This is a dying wish, do with it as you please. I love you more than life itself, and I will keep loving you until my final breath._

 _Yours,_

 _Myra Willis._

 **The End**

* * *

 **It's over, it's done.**

 **It's a story about fear, determination, indoctrination, lies, justice, family, and death. A story about twisted love and a love that could've been. It's about the journey instead of the destination, about fearing the right thing instead of fearing what can't harm you, it's about war, it's about Victorian London.**

 **Thank you for everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and followed. Your support means the world to me.**


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